


Drinking the sea and then laughing loudly

by lalejandra



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Best Friends, F/M, Fake Marriage, Falling In Love, Happy Ending for Everyone, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Polyamory, Sex Toys, Transformative Works Welcome, Weirdly you guys this story is not about its tags!, uncomfortable sex, zero historical accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:34:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Brendon didn't believe his father would really make him leave. That was Brendon's mistake.





	Drinking the sea and then laughing loudly

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an alternate 1890s Nevada. The Civil War was fought to free everyone, and the Equality Laws were enacted, making every single living person equal to everyone else and allowed to fuck anyone, marry anyone, wear any clothes they want, and be any sex and/or gender; free expression for everyone. Plus also something to do with socialism and making everyone's lives better and, I don't know, medicine and schooling and everyone gets land to live on and stuff. Also there are no STDs. (Sorry, history buffs.)
> 
> Obviously there are no Equality Laws and no fucking person was equal to the white Christian man in 1890s Nevada, but even so, I have left out [Nevada's bloody history](http://www.native-languages.org/nevada.htm) between the immigrants who "settled" the land and the Native people who lived there until (mostly white) people came and warred with them and murdered them and stole their land, money, and resources, and forced them onto reservations. I also left out the history of slavery and prejudice that the USA is founded on. If you are interested in finding out more about the horrifying history of the American West, [this is a good place to start](http://www.lib.washington.edu/subject/history/tm/native.html%22). Additionally, I don’t want this story to participate in the historizing of the oppression of the indigenous peoples of North America -- unfortunately, this oppression is still happening today, from [unimaginable levels of poverty among people from indigenous tribes](http://www.spotlightonpoverty.org/ExclusiveCommentary.aspx?id=0fe5c04e-fdbf-4718-980c-0373ba823da7) to [ongoing quests for environmental justice](http://www.as.wwu.edu/media/as-board-meeting-documents/doc_1_-_winona_laduke_proposal.pdf%20) (that link is a PDF).
> 
> I totally pretended that the Equality Laws literally made every single person equal and made society progressive and better. I hate writing stories in which people get hurt and die -- because of individual action, because of systemic action. I fucking hate it. So I didn't do it, because I didn't have to, because I am privileged enough in this area at this moment that I can set aside what really happened and make up something totally different. My intention was in no way to wipe out or ignore the reality and history of the people who suffered and died because of the "settling" of the west (and the history of the USA in general), but to create a totally ridiculous alternate reality in which no one is ever unhappy or the victim of any kind of prejudice. I hope no one is hurt by this alteration to reality.
> 
> There _is_ racism and prejudice in this story -- Mormons, who historically have not embraced people of color, or, you know, the LGBTQ spectrum, are not treated kindly in this story by me, and are written as being against the Equality Laws and still prejudiced against basically everyone. Brendon learns/knows it is wrong, and fights his upbringing to embrace the Equality Laws.
> 
> Other notes: This started out as a 5,000 word story about an arranged marriage and developed into this huge (for me) project that I compulsively wrote over the course of the last month or so. Their clothes are all pretty much period-accurate. So is their food, the house, the horses, the carriages, the music, the songs, the instruments, and a lot of their language. And their sex toys.
> 
> As a side note, I took the idea of "per" and "person" instead of gendered pronouns from _Woman on the Edge of Time_ by Marge Piercy, a fascinating feminist sf novel from the 70s.
> 
> Content notes: A lot of the sex in this falls under the auspices of "dubcon." The arranged marriage is not to anyone's liking and the characters forced into marriage do not fall in love, nor are either of them pleased by the sex they have. There's also a lot of masturbation. All of the on-screen sex is unsafe, which is mostly historically accurate (no French letters here!). There's crossdressing, dildos, and skinny-dipping. There's also some homophobia, and, as I mentioned above, Brendon has to deal with his own internalized racism and prejudice. Ryan's father is the alcoholic we've been told he was in life, is abusive to Ryan (verbally in the story, but there is a history of physical abuse mentioned, although none takes place within the story), and dies in the course of the story (although earlier than in "canon"); Brendon is estranged from his parents (but never makes up with them).
> 
> If you're looking for a historical AU that (a) is historically accurate and/or (b) follows along precisely with canon, you are looking in the wrong place.
> 
> My beloved Krista beta'd this for me, and I probably would have decided against posting it if it hadn't been for her input. ♥
> 
> Dear Laura, I hope you are happy with yourself! Look what you have wrought! Love, me.

Brendon had not believed his father. That was, is, Brendon's mistake. He'd thought his father loved him, thought his father was too devoted to the word of God, thought his father would... would eventually see reason, or be worn down by Brendon's ability to be endlessly, cheerfully stubborn. His father had, of course, warned Brendon that if he didn't settle down, he'd be forced to take drastic action. But Brendon... well, Brendon had not believed him.

But when Brendon tumbles into his bedroom from the tree outside his window as the sun rises behind the city, it's to land solidly on the hard floor instead of on his steamer trunk. When he sits up and rubs his ankle, Kristy flashes him an apologetic glance from where she is helping two other maids carry the trunk out of the room.

Everything is gone. Everything. Brendon's books, his writing desk, his instruments, the clothes he'd always let fall to the ground instead of properly brushing and putting away. The linens from his bed. His favorite pillow, the long one, the one with -- well, the one no one is ever supposed to touch. Gone.

"Ah, Brendon."

When he looks up, his father is standing in the hall, dressed in church clothes, tugging on gloves.

"Father," he says cautiously. He stands slowly, testing his ankle before he puts weight on it.

"Close your window, please."

Brendon does, and when he turns back, his father is still standing there. He doesn't -- he looks -- he looks impatient, bored, irritated, but not sad or rueful. Brendon stupidly doesn't worry about what that means; Brendon stupidly is not expecting what comes next.

"I've agreed to marry you to George Ross's son. Perhaps he can put the fear of God into you where your mother and I have clearly failed. Perhaps marriage will settle you down." Brendon's father smooths his hands over his jacket, and smiles at Brendon. "I know it's unconventional, but I don't think any good woman would have you, son. If you'd paid attention to any teachings these years, you'd know that you reap what you sow."

"But -- Father, a man?" Brendon leans back against the window and shuts his eyes. "Father, please, it's just music -- it's just --"

"You wanted to be secular, Brendon. Now you are secular. I'm sure you can understand that your mother and I won't be coming to the wedding. I can't speak for your brothers and sisters, but I doubt this is a relationship they'd want to condone."

"I don't condone it either!" says Brendon. He feels wild inside, feels like he's hallucinating or panicking or dreaming. "Father, please, this is ridiculous --"

"George Ross's carriage is already here and almost loaded. Brendon..." His father pauses here, but it’s not a pause that gives Brendon hope. He looks like a stranger to Brendon, like someone Brendon has maybe seen a few times at church but never spoken to. "Perhaps in a few years, Brendon, you'll have become a man who takes life seriously. Your mother and I look forward to meeting you on those terms, as adults."

And then he leaves. While Brendon is standing on shaky knees, his father just leaves, walks down the hallway and leaves. His church shoes click on the floor, and then on the stairs, and Brendon hears the door shut behind him, the horses neigh as they drive away to early services.

Brendon can't breathe, or move, or see anything. His clothes stink of the smoke and alcohol of the club where he'd spent the night -- spent the night playing the piano and singing, not doing anything _evil_ or _immoral._ And even if he _had_ been drinking alcohol or coffee, or smoking a cigar, or -- even if he _had,_ how could his father just... just send him away?

And to marry _a man?_

Brendon slides down the wall and hides his face in his arms until Kristy comes and gently touches his hand.

"Mr. Ross's carriage is waiting for you, Brendon," she says softly. She's been their maid since Brendon was tiny, even though they're almost the same age. "I'm so sorry. I tried to keep him out of your room, but..."

"It's okay, Kristy," Brendon says tiredly. "I'm going."

"I'll miss you," she says. She's twisting her fingers against her fresh, white pinafore.

"Want to come?" He offers it as a lark, but doesn't expect her to leave her family and friends, or his family, or the church, and isn't surprised when she shakes her head and steps away, and doesn't follow him out into the hall.

George Ross's carriage is elaborate and plush and beautiful, full of silver plating and gold paint and soft velvet seats and heavy blankets to keep out the early morning spring chill. Brendon hesitates -- he smells, and his cuffs and shoes are muddy. But he's also cold, and shaking -- maybe from the actual cold, maybe just from shock, but he's shaking. He wraps a dark blanket around himself and leans against the side of the carriage, letting the bumps knock his head against the side of the carriage again and again until he falls asleep.

*

Brendon wakes up when the carriage turns sharply and he slides to the floor in a heap of blankets. He's warm and a little sweaty and the desert sun is fully up, shining into the carriage through the windows Brendon hadn't covered. The Rosses live on an estate outside the city, several hours away; the fact that Brendon's father put this together overnight means he found out Brendon had snuck out (again) early in the evening, and instead of sending someone to bring Brendon home, he had made the decision to marry Brendon off.

 _To marry Brendon off. To a man._ Fuck.

Brendon isn't supposed to curse, but now he's not living under his parents' roof anymore, is he? FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. SHIT. DAMN. BLOODY HELL.

Brendon does not want to marry George Ross's son. George Ross is a wastrel and a gambler, and it's only luck that he's rich enough that he hasn't gambled through his estate and fortune yet. The only reason Brendon's father even knows him is because George Ross has been into Brendon's father's bank enough times that Brendon's father -- the manager of the bank, a high and respected position for a Saint to hold in a non-Saint establishment -- is the one handling his accounts. And what Brendon wants to know is why the very first thing Brendon's father thought of when he decided to punish Brendon for sneaking out (again) was _to marry Brendon to George Ross's son._

When the carriage comes to a halt, Brendon is still on the floor, tangled in the blanket, sweating under the hot rays of sun coming through the window, feeling miserable, feeling sorry for himself, and working up the strength to feel angry. He figures once he has some breakfast, the gnawing in his stomach will turn into a gnawing of anger and sadness instead of a gnawing of desire for eggs and toast.

He doesn't bother to say anything to the manservant who opens the carriage door or the maid who opens the door of the estate. Brendon's lived in the city his entire life, but it's not like he's never been to an estate, to a house with more than three floors, to a place with a garden where they waste water like they don't live in a desert, a house with wings made of _wood._ He doesn't care how rich the Rosses are -- so rich they have to buy a _spouse_ for the only son and heir, so what good is their money to them? The really rich people marry for love or not at all -- and maybe that's one of the reasons why Brendon's parents hated that he snuck out to sing secular songs at secular clubs. Secular values, like love and respect and living a life of joy and freedom.

The servant doesn’t bow or make himself subservient in any way, which kind of surprises Brendon, who has only ever read about butlers, never met one. In books, they bow. Of course, in books, they’re also not tall and imposing and... well, not... Brendon doesn’t really know the right words -- he's spent too much time around Saints who won't ever explain _anything._

"Mr. Urie, I'm Toro, and I run the house. If you need anything, just let me or one of the maids know, and we'll make sure you get it. We thought that perhaps before the wedding, you'd like to keep to the east wing -- it's actually the original building of the estate, made of adobe and so quite cool during the heat of the day, and has a lovely view of the mountains." The butler has the most hair Brendon's ever seen on a person, and extremely kind eyes, but Brendon is angry and hungry and hurt and feels. Just. Awful. And...

"Stay in the east wing? Why would I --" Oh, of course, to maintain a slight semblance of propriety. Brendon draws in a long breath through his nose and straightens his shoulders. "Of course. Toro. Nice to meet you. Yes. I..." He trails off. He can't appreciate how lovely the house is, or -- or anything. It's beginning to sink in that he's not going home.

"Shall I have one of the maids draw you a bath?" Toro diplomatically doesn't mention Brendon's smell. Brendon sighs and nods. "Right away. Would you like something to eat before your bath, or shall I send up a tray?"

"Maybe just some bread and cheese? Or... breakfast? How do things work here? Is there food on a sideboard?"

"The elder Mr. Ross does not require breakfast, so the younger Mr. Ross takes a tray. Coffee, toast, poached egg, bacon, muffins."

Brendon sucks in a breath. Everything is so different _already._

"I'm a Latter Day Saint," he tells Toro quietly as they walk through the hallway. "I don't eat meat. Or coffee. Or --"

"Pardon me if I'm stepping out of line, sir," Toro says, and stops at a doorway. He doesn't walk through.

"You can call me Brendon. I mean, I'm barely a step above a servant," Brendon says bitterly.

"The younger Mr. Ross treats us familiarly." Toro's tone is mild, but Brendon feels reproved -- and realizes, for the first time, that Toro is not wearing a fancy uniform, but trousers and a shirt, with a dark waistcoat and crisp white collar. No jacket, not even a tie.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Brendon knocks his head against the dark wood paneling of the wall a couple of times. "I'm sorry, I just --"

Toro inclines his head. It's not really a nod. "Mr. Urie. Brendon. All I was going to say was... the Rosses don't follow an organized belief system of any kind, and would not look askance if you were to have a cup of coffee. And I think... well, the staff would be happy to cater to what you'd like, but... you're not really a Mormon anymore, are you?"

Brendon hisses at the word -- _Mormon,_ so ugly unless one is talking about the book; almost an insult, because it's what the fundamentalists adopted when they refused to accept God's word to end plural marriage. But he also thinks about the sermons he'd had to sit through, hours and hours of rage against the government for allowing same-sex marriages through, for pushing legislation that anyone could marry or own property or vote. A truly egalitarian society, with no nod to race or color or sex or religion, that was what the government was aiming for.

Brendon had thought it was wonderful when he learned about it, and didn't understand -- why would God want to keep people separated by color or because they were male or female? Just because the laws were secular didn't necessarily make them wrong. Kyla could leave her abusive spouse and do whatever she wanted, taking her inheritance with her. But Brendon's parents had thought it an abomination -- on every level.

One of the many things they'd disagreed about when Brendon was growing up.

And Brendon had hated the church -- hated everything about it. Hated the preaching, the rules, the amount of time he'd had to spend there. Hated the punishments, the excommunications, the hours of praying to a God he wasn't sure even existed. Hated the buttoned-down gatherings, the laws against secular music, the high collars and suffocating long sleeves. But now -- oh, God, _he's not a_ Mormon _anymore._ He'll never be a true saint, and he's equal to anybody else.

This hadn’t actually occurred to him until Toro said it.

"Oh my God," whispers Brendon to the wall.

*

Coffee is vile. Brendon doesn't know why anyone would drink the stuff. It's gritty and bitter and sour -- and _hot._ Burning hot. Brendon has never ingested a beverage this warm in his _life._ Toro laughs at him and leads him through the kitchens -- warm and comforting and clearly ruled with an iron fist by a big blond man with a perpetual scowl -- to a set of narrow stairs that takes them to the second floor. Even in the heat of the day, the adobe is cool to the touch; Brendon trails fingers over the walls as they walk.

Toro shows him the suite of rooms he gets until the wedding, small but serviceable, and slowly being filled with his trunks of clothes and books and instruments. The bed is bigger than his bed at home, but the room has no windows -- which is nice, Brendon thinks, because it means the east sun won't wake him up every morning.

The room where a small bathtub is waiting has all the windows; the sun is moving away from them, but the room is cozy without being suffocating. Brendon crams the last crust of toast into his mouth -- spread with a thick layer of butter and then jam on top of it, because Bob the cook has never been lectured by Brendon's father on indulgence and the devil's hand sneaking into one's life through decadence -- and carefully puts down the hot cup of coffee and moves toward the bathtub, and Toro laughs.

"Do you need a valet?" he asks, and Brendon shakes his head, already stripping off his jacket.

"Thanks, I'll be fine. I'm used to doing for myself." Brendon drops the tie on the floor -- it was strangling him, and so was the collar, and the horrible shirt smelling of Brendon's last night of freedom.

Toro points out the washcloths and towels, the soaps and a shaving kit nicer than Brendon's own hand-me-down kit from his brother, and steps out, telling Brendon to shout if he needs anything else. And then Brendon is alone, kicking off his shoes carelessly and dropping his pants. The hot water is a relief to step into; Brendon's not cold, but he's not... it just reminds him that he's doing all right.

The tub is so small that Brendon, who is not exactly large, barely fits, and water sloshes over the edge, but it's wonderful to be clean, to scrub the smoke smell off himself, wash the spilled wine out of his hair with soft, sweet-smelling soap. There are two buckets of tepid water next to the tub; Brendon stands and pours them over himself to wash away the soap, and dries off with a long, soft sheet. Everything here is more luxurious than what Brendon is used to, including the floors -- adobe bricks, but covered in sumptuous carpets he digs his toes into -- and the furniture. His parents were well-off, and they never wanted for anything, but Brendon's father didn't believe in anything that could be termed indulgent or wasteful.

Brendon uses the last bit of clean water to shave at the mirror near the door, standing naked, because no one will come in, he doesn't think, without knocking, and then he heads, still naked, back into the room full of his stuff. At first he pulls out the dark pants and waistcoat and tie that he'd wear at home, to church with his parents. Then, remembering the casual way Toro was dressed, he leaves the waistcoat and swaps the black pants for his everyday dark brown ones, no braces needed. He leaves the crisp white shirt with its almost-fashionable club collar, and goes for a brown work shirt that buttons all the way to his throat, but is more comfortable than any of the others. He doesn't think Mr. Ross is going to make him work in the fields to make sure his idle hands don't do the devil's business, but Brendon's not actually sure. Maybe his father told Mr. Ross -- both Mr. Rosses -- how Brendon can't sit still.

What he really wants is to curl up on that huge bed -- with his pillow, and a quick swipe over the bottom of it confirms that his secrets are intact -- and... either think really hard about what's just happened to him, or not think at all about what's just happened to him.

Since he can't decide, he figures he might as well go back into the main part of the house and meet the rest of the people who work there. The fact that neither Mr. Ross greeted him at the door didn't escape him; something is _wrong_ here.

*

Bob the cook, with several giggling assistants, introduces him to people as they come in and out of the kitchen. All of his assistants wear a similar uniform to Bob's -- a wide, white, stained apron over tight-legged pants and a V-necked shirt with short sleeves that conforms to the body. They all have short hair, or tightly-plaited ponytails, and Brendon sits and listens to their gossip before he realizes that only one of them is a boy.

He draws in a sharp gasp, and Lyn breaks off in the middle of her story about Brendon's prospective groom falling out of a second-storey window and landing on a horse. "What's wrong?"

"You're -- female," says Brendon faintly.

"Yes, and?" asks Lyn impatiently.

"But -- you're wearing pants. And -- that shirt." Brendon can hear his father's voice coming out of his mouth, and he hates it, but he's scandalized. What else is untrue about what he sees here?

"Ryan is very progressive," Lyn snaps. She stands up, sweeping her apron out of the way. "Mr. Urie, please let me show you to the sitting room where you won't have to --"

"No, no!" he says hastily, too loudly. "No, I -- no, I want to stay here. Please don't make me -- I mean -- please?"

Brendon watches as Bob comes up and whispers a few words into Lyn's ear. He doesn't smile at Brendon or anything, but Brendon definitely feels comforted, like just because he did one thing wrong doesn't mean he's out on his ear for life.

"You're a _Mormon?"_ gasps Lyn. The word pricks, still, and Brendon wants to correct her, wants to say, "No, we're Latter Day Saints, we're _Saints."_ But he doesn't, stubbornly doesn't let that part of himself even be offended.

"Oh, how ever did you end up _here?_ We thought --" She looks around a little wildly -- and, yeah, now that Brendon is _looking,_ he can _see_ that Lyn has... womanly features. But with her hair slicked back and the large apron on... and what if she'd _rather_ be a boy? Brendon and Kyla's older sister used to, before she was married -- well, it was late and night and in whispers, and surely God, if there is really a God, won't ever count it against her.

One of the maids joins them. "We didn't realize you were a Mormon," says the maid kindly. "We thought perhaps your father was in debt and sold you, or that maybe you and Ryan had been corresponding, and this was a love match. What..." The maid trails off, and restarts in a different place than the sentence Brendon was sure would have been, "What the heck are you doing here marrying a man if you're a Mormon?" Instead, she says, "Do you need us to do anything special for you? I hear Mormons wear fancy underwear that only other Mormons can touch."

Brendon sighs. "I'm not really a -- a _Mormon_ anymore," he tells the maid, who, he suspects, now that he knows such things are encouraged here, despite her wide skirts and corset, is actually a boy. "Even if I wanted to be, marrying Mr. R -- marrying Ryan? That automatically excommunicates me."

"Do you feel like God has abandoned you?" asks the maid, leaning forward. She seems awfully eager to pry into Brendon's personal business -- business he hasn't even worked out fully for himself yet.

"I --" starts Brendon, and then Lyn pulls her away.

"Gee, he just got here. Let him get his bearings!"

And then, like a savior, Bob booms overhead, "Lunchtime for Ryan. Whose turn is it?"

Suddenly everyone's got fingers to their noses. Everyone except Brendon.

Bob sighs and crosses his arms. "Where's Frank? It's his turn."

"Here!" One of the maids in wide skirts scrambles up Bob's back like she's wearing pants. Her hair is falling out of its knot, and her shirt is sliding off a shoulder -- which shouldn't matter, because she's clearly not a woman, but Brendon blushes anyway, and turns his head. The maid, who he suspects is another boy, is sitting on Lyn's lap.

Everything is backwards here.

Brendon watches as Frank-in-a-dress takes a tray almost as big as he is and maneuvers it out the door -- not the door that leads to the east wing, but the door back into the main house. The plates are all properly covered with silver domes, but Brendon had been watching Bob cook and knows lunch is a soup and crusty bread rolls. And more coffee -- he can smell the coffee.

"Where's -- I mean --" He stumbles over his words but finally gets them out. "Am I ever to meet Mr. Ross or Mr. Ross? Before the wedding?"

The not-a-girl maid sighs, and lets her head roll onto Lyn's shoulder. "I can't believe it's not a love match. We all had such high hopes. Just to get Ryan away from Mr. Ross; just to..."

"Gerard," says Lyn sharply.

"You know we're all thinking it! Someone Ryan actually _wants_ around, someone to..." Gerard (definitely not a woman, then, Brendon decides) sighs again, like a character from the penny dreadfuls that the other performers at the club sometimes read aloud. Then he flaps a hand, and Brendon can feel himself frowning. "Someone besides Sp --"

"Someone tell me what's going on," Brendon demands.

"Mr. Ross likes to drink, and is often not nice when he does. And he swears he will stop, swears to never gamble, whatever, but then he does again, and Ryan is crushed every time, even though he swears he's not," says Bob the cook bluntly. He puts down a bowl in front of Brendon -- steaming, delicious-smelling soup. "And even Ryan's best friend can't help all the time, and we were hoping that having you here meant a change to that. But if you're going to..." Bob stops speaking, and when he starts again, his voice is slightly gentler, less harsh. "We do like our freedom here."

"I don't want to change anything that works here," replies Brendon earnestly, because he doesn't, because this seems... well, scandalous _and_ glorious, and surely not what his father had meant by Brendon becoming an adult -- but _exactly_ what he'd meant by secular. "Is --"

"No meat," says Bob, and then he's gone again.

The soup has beans, and some kind of green vegetable that is almost slimy but not quite, and chunks of potato. It's hot, though, which is weird, and Brendon blows on each spoonful to cool it off before sipping at the rich broth. Lyn and Gerard are picking at the rolls piled high on the table, feeding bites to each other.

"My father meant this as a punishment," Brendon tells them. He chews on a mealy bean and swallows; all his good sense tells him not to confide in servants, but his good sense also didn't want him playing piano at clubs, and that was so wonderful, so his good sense can go -- can go hang. "He meant for me to come here and marry and become an adult, and, I guess, see that people who aren't Mormons are not, you know, _our_ kind of people." Brendon shrugs, chews a whole mouthful of beans this time. "I..." Gerard and Lyn lean closer, like he's going to tell them secrets. But he's not, he can't. Some things are his to keep. "I guess I've never been a Saint in my heart. So my father had my room packed up and the next thing I knew, I was being sent off."

Gerard's mouth falls open and his eyes get wide. "How horrible! So you're never even met Ryan!"

"Nope. And..." Brendon shrugs. "I guess we'll see how it goes. Is Mr. Ross really that awful?"

"Yes," says Lyn, and the same time that Gerard says, "No."

"Great," says Brendon. He refocuses on the soup, and Lyn, clearly realizing Brendon doesn't want to keep talking about any of it, goes back to her stories about Ryan's mishaps, and tells a cheery one about trying to teach him to boil water over a campfire.

*

Supper is much the same; Brendon sees no one but the house staff, and Ryan gets his meal on a tray. At one point, he hears a rider pounding up the drive on a horse. When he peeks outside through the kitchen's window, it's a handsome young person -- because, he realizes, outside of the Mormon community, pants is no indicator any longer whether someone is male or female -- with shiny hair and dressed all in black like a gunslinger. The person vaults off their horse, leaving the reins with Frank, and dashes into the house.

Bob shoves a tray at Jamia, and she whirls out of the kitchen. The tray is full of delicious-looking cakes, tiny ones, frosted in bright colors and filled with a delicious-smelling brown custard, and a large pot of something that smells amazing.

"What is that?"

"Tray for Spencer," says Bob.

"That's Ryan's best friend," adds Gerard helpfully. He hasn't left Brendon's side all day, except for when Brendon went to the water closet. Which, unlike his family's outhouse, or his cousin's horrifying privy, has a string to pull and the water is flushed away. Through pipes under the ground, Gerard had told him, sketching out on the table with a piece of charcoal what it apparently looks like. Ryan had them installed as soon as he heard about them, but, Gerard had added, everyone is supposed to be really careful because sometimes they explode.

"No, I mean -- the smell."

"Oh, that's chocolate. Like the custard? It's okay. It's not better than coffee, plus it needs a lot of sugar --" Gerard breaks off. "You've never had _chocolate?"_ When Brendon shakes his head, Gerard scrambles up, his skirts everywhere -- his outfit is _not_ a maid's outfit; it's a lady's outfit, but with a maid's pinafore over it. He messes around at the stove and with the sugar, with a lot of help from Bob, who catches the sugar scoop when Gerard drops it, and catches the wooden spoon from the soup when Gerard's elbow knocks it over, and catches Gerard when one of his slippers hits some water and goes out from under him.

When Gerard comes back to the bench, he's cradling a tiny cup of adulterated chocolate. "It's hot," he says apologetically, "but when it cools off, it gets a skin on top from the milk, and that is not delicious."

"It's okay," says Brendon, feeling resolute. "I drink hot beverages now."

Gerard beams at him, which happily distracts Brendon from the dark bitterness of the chocolate -- even more bitter than the coffee, even with all the sugar Gerard had scooped in. It's one of those things, Brendon decides, that only _smells_ delicious, but really tastes terrible, like the mince pie at the saloon, and perfume, and chamomile.

"I should think of more non-Sa -- I mean, you know, non-Mormon things to do," Brendon tells Gerard. "I've played secular music, and drank coffee and hot things, and --"

"You're joining with a man. Don't you think that's non-Mormon enough?" Bob thumps a plate in front of Brendon -- it's full of the tiny, sugared cakes. "Get through the wedding night first, and then we'll start you on whisky and tattoos and a ring through your nose."

Brendon touches his nose. A ring through it? Maybe just for fun, he decides, but he'd take it out right afterward.

The cakes are delicious and now that he knows what chocolate is, he knows that's what's in the custard -- none of it is anything like the heavy sweet bread his mother sometimes makes with leftover squash or apples.

*

Every day is the same -- Brendon wakes up and bathes and shaves and chokes down a cup of coffee. The taste is awful, but he loves the way he feels right afterward, like he'll never sleep again and could stand on his head for hours. He stays in the kitchen most of the day, with Bob and Gerard and Jamia and Lyn and Frank, and sometimes even Toro. Spencer rides to the house every day, usually after lunch. Sometimes he even stays the night, leaves in the morning, and comes back again in the afternoon.

They give him tours of the grounds -- there's a huge hothouse full of flowers and exotic fruits, which is the province of Toro, when he's not being a butler. The barns are full of horses that aren't for riding (Brendon doesn't ask what they're for), most of which Mr. Ross gambles away and gets back with regularity. Gerard's younger brother and his wife -- no, his _spouse_ \-- run the stables, taking care of the horses and making sure they get exercised, and they tell Brendon they're working with Spencer on a breeding program.

After almost two weeks, Brendon still hasn't met either Ryan or Mr. Ross, although he's more than once heard Mr. Ross stumble into the house, drunk, stinking up the foyer with whisky and brandy and rum, shouting. He falls heavily down the stairs Brendon's third night, and the doctor is called. Brendon doesn't leave his suite for a couple of days, except to whisper with Frank in the hall about Mr. Ross's concussion.

Brendon is putting forth a lot of effort to just not think about what's going on, pretending he's on a long vacation. Sometimes he plays the piano that's in the drawing room, but only when Toro tells him it's all right, that no one will mind, that Mr. Ross is gone and Ryan is at the other end of the house or out with Spencer. Sometimes he sings -- songs he'd learned from Patrick at the saloon, bawdy songs and sad songs and songs about lost loves and songs about pirates on the high seas. Songs about loss and tragedy -- those are the songs, Pete had taught him, that you play late at night when the drunks are buying more and more rum and brandy and cheap wine to salve their sadness.

Brendon needs to salve his sadness. And... he needs to salve his conscience, which isn't sad at all, only nervous about meeting Ryan and Mr. Ross. Brendon thinks he hates the part of himself that is so very happy to be out from under his parents' roof, even as he misses them. He misses folding each napkin into thirds; the Rosses fold their napkins into quarters. He misses his mother's sourdough bread. But he doesn't miss church, or youth groups, or working at his uncle's dry goods store, or any of that.

Most of all, he misses Pete's club, playing the piano with Patrick until dawn, but it's hours and hours away, and Mikey and Alicia would notice if he stole a horse to ride into the city every night.

*

The knock on his door comes at almost midnight, when he's asleep and dreaming. So he's dreaming that there's a knock on his door, and -- no, there's _really_ a knock on his door, and when he answers it, there's a pale, skinny, tall boy standing there in a nightshirt with his long, knobbly feet bare. He's holding an old-fashioned candle stick, finger stuck through the hook, yellow wax dripping onto the hallway floor.

Brendon is suddenly embarrassed of his naked chest, naked legs. He sweats when he sleeps, is always warm, and it's easier to sleep without a nightshirt or pajamas than let them strangle him in the middle of the night. But he'd thought... he doesn't know what he'd thought when he opened the door. Certainly not this.

"The joining is tomorrow," says the boy, in a much deeper voice than Brendon was expecting. "Wear something nice, I guess. I wanted to have something made for you, but I forgot, and Spencer said it would have been high-handed anyway."

"Yes," says Brendon numbly.

"Okay, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow. The judge is coming to yell at my father for something, and he'll marry us before he leaves."

"Wait!" says Brendon, as the boy -- as _Ryan_ \-- turns and starts to shuffle away. "I mean -- it's nice to meet you."

"Yeah, how do you do," says the boy. It's not even a question, he's not even -- he's not even interested, or looking at Brendon; he doesn't even care. And then he disappears around the corner, and Brendon hears the stairs creak as he walks down them into the kitchens, and he's gone.

Tomorrow, Brendon will be married -- no, he'll be _joined._ He won't be a Saint, won't be a husband sanctified in the temple with his bride for all eternity, on earth and in heaven. He'll just be a person, married by a judge, standing next to his spouse, equal rights for everyone under the law, whether they be male or female or anything else they've decided to call themselves. Married to the sharp-faced pale boy in the paisley nightshirt. _What is he getting out of this?_ Brendon wonders to himself for just a moment before putting it out of his mind, and crawling back into bed. It's hot and getting hotter, summer only a breath away, so he just pulls up a muslin sheet and leaves the heavy blankets at the foot of the bed.

*

In the morning, Brendon takes a bath and washes his hair and shaves carefully. He doesn't nick himself, which, he thinks, is a good portent. In his undershirt and shorts, he wanders into his bedroom, thinking about his good church clothes, the ones he saves for the holidays.

Gerard is already there, skirts spread around him on the bed, sitting next to a tray full of scones and muffins and toast and a dish of perfectly yellow butter and another of orange marmalade. Brendon settles next to him and drinks the glass of water -- Gerard is drinking Brendon's coffee -- and eats toast.

When he's had enough of Gerard's chattering, he says, "Gerard..."

"The judge is supposed to be here soon," Gerard replies. "Ryan's nice. You could have done a lot worse, Brendon." Brendon thinks Gerard means to be reassuring or comforting. He's neither. "If it doesn't work out, you can have a modern marriage -- go your own way. It's not like anyone is expecting an heir."

Brendon's stomach turns. He leans in closer. "I am so nervous," Brendon whispers to Gerard.

"Don't be -- sex feels good," Gerard tells him, and then jumps off the bed and whisks away the tray, tripping over his hems, before Brendon can tell him that the sex isn't really the part he's nervous about. But maybe it should be -- and suddenly it is. He thinks about the skinny boy, and his own long limbs and the black hair on his body, and wonders if there's something he's supposed to do. He knows sex involves being naked and touching each other -- and sometimes he -- well -- he --

But he doesn't know what to _do._ And he doesn't have anyone to _ask._

Maybe Ryan will know.

When Brendon goes downstairs and through the kitchen to the main house, Toro ushers him into a drawing room. Ryan is already there -- so is Spencer, who Brendon is finally going to meet.

Brendon wants to say something to Ryan, something like, "So, we're getting married," or "What's wrong with you that you can't find your own spouse?" or "How did you know that you didn't want to marry a woman?" but Ryan is staring out the window, hands in his pockets.

Plus, Spencer is in the room, once again dressed all in black. Brendon doesn't know anything about him except that he's Ryan's best friend and he does some kind of work for Mr. Ross, so he's not sure talking about their arranged -- _forced_ \-- joining is appropriate. If Spencer'd been wearing guns or spurs, Brendon thinks he'd definitely be a cowboy gunslinger -- but he's not. Just a snazzy vest with the same green paisley as Ryan's pants, and a silky-looking black tie with a silver pin in it. His jacket has tails.

He's the fanciest-looking person in the room. Brendon's wearing his plain church clothes, black pants and a white shirt and a black tie. His boots are shiny, at least; Gerard blacked them that morning while he drank the whole pot of coffee and Brendon ate toast, chatting the whole time about love growing from tiny seeds. And Ryan... Brendon isn't sure if Ryan is dressed up or making fun -- green paisley pants, tight like jodhpurs; a satin vest striped in green and black; a dark red velvet jacket with roses sewn onto the lapels; a pink ascot patterned with tiny flowers.

Spencer catches Brendon's eye, catches Brendon staring at the silver pin in his tie, and smiles. Brendon blushes and looks away. Staring at his soon-to-be-spouse's best friend. How awful. He tries to think of Pete and Patrick, and what advice Pete would give him, but he comes up blank. Pete was always saying stuff that didn't make sense, and Patrick was always rolling his eyes and saying, "Shut up, Pete" and then challenging Brendon to dueling pianos.

Brendon misses them more, he thinks, than he misses his parents.

The judge and Mr. Ross are hollering at each other. Mr. Ross's rooms are in the west wing, but everyone can hear them, because they're yelling so loudly. Brendon tunes it out by humming to himself. Ryan ignores it, stays staring out the window with his hands in his pockets. Spencer comes over to Brendon, though, and sits next to him on the horsehair couch.

"I'm Spencer," he says, and holds out his hand. Brendon automatically shakes it. Spencer's hands have calluses, but they're clean. "I've been Ryan's best friend since we were kids."

"Nice to meet you," says Brendon, and tries to smile.

"It's weird, huh?" says Spencer. "I tried to talk them out of it, but -- well, they're pretty attached to the manor, and your dad was really insistent."

"I don't know anything about it. My dad just packed my stuff up and sent me here." Brendon shrugs. He's trying to be casual, but he just can't be. He just can't sit and talk like they're here for a party.

"Ryan's a great guy," Spencer says assuredly.

"Oh, sure," says Brendon. He forces a smile to his face. It's not Spencer's fault that this is awful and horrible and that his whole life is ruined and he's never going to see Pete or Patrick or Travie or Ashlee or Joe or Marie again. He's going to be stuck being a spouse and learning about his spouse's business and... he could run away. Could he run away?

He's drawing in a breath to say he can't do this when the judge comes in with Mr. Ross. Mr. Ross doesn't look like a terrible person, but Brendon knows -- Brendon's heard the rumors, heard his parents talking in low tones at night, heard the people who came into his uncle's store whispering, even though it's not Saintly to gossip.

The judge shrugs into a long black robe, pulling his long hair out from under the collar. Brendon feels awful and guilty that he's surprised the judge is Native -- or, Brendon knows from the newspapers, some people prefer Nuwuvi -- even though he _knows_ from his personal experience over the last two years, not to mention the last two weeks, that things are different away from the Saints.

Brendon doesn't want to be the kind of person who's surprised by equality every time he sees it.

The judge is glaring at Mr. Ross, who is looking everywhere but at Brendon and Ryan and Spencer.

"Let's get this done," says the judge, and he turns to Brendon. "You're Boyd's boy?"

"Yes, sir," says Brendon. He stands and brushes the wrinkles out of his pants, straightens his shirt.

"Your daddy's a hard man," says the judge, and clears his throat. Brendon happens to agree, but he's not just going to _say so._ "Brendon Boyd Urie, do you take George Ryan Ross, Junior, to be your lawfully joined spouse --"

Brendon looks around to Ryan and Spencer, who look just as surprised as he is that this is going forward so quickly, with no... pomp or circumstance or pretense that this is anything but a formality between strangers.

"-- to support, respect, and honor, in sickness and in health, in wealth and poverty; to share your lives and bring together your families, so long as you both shall live?"

"I do," says Brendon. He can barely hear his voice over the ringing in his ears. This is not how this was supposed to happen.

Over the judge's shoulder, Brendon can see Gerard and Lyn and Frank and Jamia and Bob and Toro, all hovering in the doorway, Frank pushing and elbowing people out of his way.

"George Ryan Ross, Junior, do you take Brendon Boyd Urie --"

Brendon closes his eyes as Ryan's deep voice says, "I do."

"I now pronounce you joined under the laws of the United States of America. Live in joy," says the judge drily. He holds a slip of paper to the wall and scrawls something on it, hands it to Brendon -- and then his robes swirl and he's gone. It's the marriage -- the _joining_ certificate. It's not even filled out except for the judge's signature.

"I hope you're happy," says Mr. Ross. "I hope you're proud of yourself. I --" Mr. Ross cuts himself off. "I'm going out. Have a good wedding night." He just sounds sad and defeated.

Brendon is mortified. This is the worst night of his life.

*

"Let's just get this over with," Ryan says. He leans against the wall and pulls the knot out of his cravat. Then he unbuttons his shirt. Then he pulls it off. Brendon's mouth is so dry. Ryan's skin -- smooth and pale and creamy -- just keeps appearing in front of him. Almost against his will, he feels... he _feels._ "What are you waiting for?" snaps Ryan, and Brendon jumps.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt, never taking his eyes off Ryan. Maybe this won't be awful. Brendon's mother once said, "Might as well be damned for a horse as for a lamb," and Brendon -- Brendon had been shocked to hear her curse, and also had never understood that until right now, right this moment, staring at Ryan's skin stretched over muscle and bone, blue veins showing through, long fingers deftly stripping his clothes off, letting them fall to the floor.

"Come on," Ryan says impatiently. Naked, totally naked, he throws back the quilts and climbs onto his bed, and reaches into a drawer for a small pot. The electric light is only bright near the door -- by the bed, at the other side of the room, everything is in shadow.

Brendon's heart is in his throat, beating so fast he's sure Ryan can see his body moving with each beat. The sheets are slick under his skin, and he's too nervous to be embarrassed that for the first time since he was a small child, he's naked in front of someone else. And hard -- he's hard. He's excited. Just because... just because _maybe_. . .

He climbs onto the bed and Ryan stares at him.

"What?" he finally asks.

"How do you like it? On all fours or --"

"Yeah, sure -- yes, on all fours," says Brendon, not really sure what that means except that he should be face-down, and turns over. He puts his face into the pillow on top, and feels hideously embarrassed with his bottom in the air. And... isn't there supposed to be kissing, or touching? Or... kissing _and_ touching?

The oil is warm, but Brendon still jumps when Ryan traces -- oh, God. "I don't think that's how it works," Brendon says weakly into the pillow he's clutching. Ryan's holding him down with a hand on his back.

"Of course it is," scoffs Ryan. "Don't you know anything?"

 _No,_ mouths Brendon to the pillow. Of course he doesn't know anything, just -- allusions in books, bawdy notions in songs, Pete's leering. The lectures at church about the evils of lying with a man as with a woman. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Ryan's finger pushes through his resistance.

"You have to relax." Ryan sounds exasperated, and he slaps Brendon on his bottom, which makes Brendon jump, which makes his finger slide in even deeper. Brendon hates this, and it's awful, and he doesn't understand why they can't just _say_ they consummated the marriage. No one would know.

He doesn't say that to Ryan, though, because Ryan is _moving his finger,_ and even though it hurts and feels weird, like Brendon is going to -- going to _you know_ right on Ryan's finger -- there's something about it that _doesn't_ hurt. And it can't always hurt, if this is something men do _often._

"Maybe use more oil?" suggests Brendon, and Ryan makes a rude noise, but uses more of the oil, pours it on until it's dripping on the sheets, and it feels like he's pouring it _into_ Brendon. It still hurts, though; it does _not_ feel good, not the way it feels when Brendon sometimes masturbates in the bathtub. He _knows_ it is a sin, knows that his body isn't _supposed_ to do this, but it's just another in a long line of ways that Brendon's never been a Saint in his heart.

"Ready?" asks Ryan, and no, no he's not ready, how could Ryan possibly think he's ready?

"Have you ever done this before?" asks Brendon. His hands hurt where they're grabbing the pillow tightly, where feathers are actually puncturing through the fabric to poke his hands.

"Of course. Haven't you?"

Brendon twists to see surprise on Ryan's face, and when Ryan's fingers move that way, it -- feels not bad. Maybe even good.

"Just do it," Brendon tells him, and buries his face in the pillow, and, as Ryan pushes in, Brendon pretends he's playing the piano, picks out the fingering for "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie," always the last song of the night at Pete's, and breathes like he's singing, from deep inside, and... it just hurts.

More than anything, it hurts. More than anything, Brendon feels really lonely.

*

Brendon slips away once Ryan falls asleep -- on the other side of the bed, curled around a pillow, tucked under several blankets. It hurts to move; he's sore. He feels gross -- covered in oil, and other _stuff._ He pulls on his pants and shirt anyway, leaving his tie where it fell off the chair onto the tray of beef and stewed vegetables. He doesn't want to go through the kitchens, but he's not sure if there's another way to get to his rooms.

The downstairs hallway is quiet, and Brendon's bare feet don't make a sound on the floor. When he reaches the kitchens, he can hear the raucous laughter outside the door; it all quiets when he swings the door open.

"We thought --" Jamia cuts herself off. She's sitting on Lyn's lap, and Gerard is lying on the bench with his head on Frank's thighs. _They have never been lonely, I bet,_ Brendon thinks bitterly.

"I'm going back to my room to sleep. Happy wedding," Brendon says, before he can stop his mouth.

Bob grabs him by the shirtsleeve before he can go through the other door. "You okay?" he asks in an undertone.

"Sure," replies Brendon dully. "I'm great."

"Take this." Bob pushes a small tin into his hand. "Spencer left it for you. Just in case."

Brendon squeezes the tin tightly enough that the metal bites into his hand. "Thanks." As soon as Bob lets go of his shirt, he escapes through the door into the east wing. Climbing the stairs sucks just as much as going down the main house stairs did, and it's all Brendon can do to get into his room and strip off his wedding clothes. He kicks them into corner. He wants to burn them -- Ryan is rich; Brendon never has to wear those clothes again.

The tin is hard to get open. A piece of paper glued to the outside says "rub on affected area," so Brendon swipes two fingers through the salve. It smells weird, like honey and something else, aloe or slippery elm or one of the herbs Brendon's uncle only stocked small quantities of so that women couldn't use them for their nefarious womanly purposes (purposes which Brendon's uncle had unfortunately never explained to him). It makes his fingers feel slightly tingly, but not bad, so Brendon contorts himself to smooth it on. When he pulls his fingers away, they only have salve on them, not blood or anything, so he figures he's okay. The ointment numbs him -- just a little, just enough that when he lies down, he feels a little better, like maybe one day he'll eventually be able to sleep.

Brendon tries lying on his stomach first, figuring it will be less uncomfortable, but he can't, he keeps flashing to Ryan's hand on his back and the pillow in his mouth. So he turns over and stretches his arms above his head. His pillow from home plumps when he tucks his hands under it, and he feels the envelope full of papers that he'd tucked inside. Just the familiar feel of the rectangular envelope is comforting.

He takes deep breaths, shuts his eyes and thinks about the way piano keys feel under his fingers, sorts through songs in his head until he gets to "Old Chisholm Trail" -- he loved to sing that with Patrick, to harmonize on "A-ti yi youp-youpy yea, youpy yea," twisting his mouth and opening his throat.

It's completely dark in his room except for the thin light of the moon coming in from the windows in the bathing room. He can't see the clothes he wore, kicked into a corner, clothes his mother had woven and sewn. Brendon hopes she misses him so much her heart is breaking, hopes her pain is punishing her for letting his father send him away to this place.

*

Brendon spends the whole day in his room. He heats water over the fire and sponges himself off with a soft cloth he finds in the bathing room, then crawls back into bed. Someone had tucked his Bible and Book of Mormon onto the shelf built into his bedside table, but he ignores them and goes for _The Red Badge of Courage,_ approved of by his parents only because it was educational and the story stops before the Equality Laws were enacted. He loses himself in the War and someone else's depressing life.

When there's a knock at his door, Brendon ignores it, then changes his mind -- but when he opens the door, no one is there, just a tray of poached eggs and toast, and a cup of juice, and two of last year's apples, a little wrinkly and mealy, but delicious. There's another tray around lunchtime, when the sun leaves the bathing room -- juice and water, bean soup, bread -- and another one once it's dark, just more bean soup and water and bread and butter. The soup isn't even hot, just slightly warm, and Brendon is comforted by the fact that even though he's going to hate doing his marital duty, the servants all like him enough to try to feed him what he's used to.

One of these days, Brendon decides, he'll eat beef, or buffalo, or chicken. Or lamb. Or _anything._ Bacon. He'll eat bacon. It smells good, and he's not a Mormon, could never go back to the church now. An apostate.

He kind of likes that word.

He spends the night ripping the pages out of his Book of Mormon and watching them burn in candle flame. One moment he's burning the Book of Ether, and the next he's asleep.

*

Using the water closet the next morning hurts, but it's better, and Brendon applies more of the salve. Amongst other things he refuses to think about is the way it almost didn't feel _awful._ It almost felt good. Not quite, though, and Ryan -- _My spouse,_ Brendon thinks defiantly, although he's not sure who he's defying -- doesn't make his stomach roll over, doesn't make him wonder about kissing, about looking at his body, not like Ashlee, the hostess of Pete's club, with her creamy breasts spilling out of her low-cut top, or even -- even Patrick, the way his mouth moved when he sang and made Brendon feel full of secrets and _wanting._

Brendon crawls back into bed until Frank comes to tend the fire, and offers to fill a hot bath. Brendon agrees, but goes down to wait for the water in the kitchen, where Bob is pulling out a tray of scones, the kind studded with dried bits of fruit and tiny nuts.

"What can I put into coffee to make it taste better?" Brendon asks Bob, breaking off a piece of steaming hot scone. It burns his mouth, but Brendon doesn't care.

"Chocolate," suggests Lyn.

"Milk?" suggests Jamia.

"The cream Bob was saving for tonight's pies," says Mikey. He's leaning against the door that goes to the outside, drinking his own cup of coffee that Bob eyes suspiciously. "I would never do that," he assures Bob, but when he catches Brendon's eye, he lifts the corner of his mouth a little, which implies to Brendon that he does it _all the time._

"I will try it all," Brendon decides, and Bob gives him a cup barely half full of coffee, which Brendon happily adulterates with a few spoonfuls of Lyn's chocolate and Jamia's glass of milk, and despite Bob's grouchy face, he does give Brendon a small bowl of the cream he'd skimmed from yesterday's milk. With all that stirred into the coffee, it's almost drinkable, even though it's not hot anymore.

No one mentions Brendon's wedding night, or Ryan, or Spencer's tin of salve, and for that Brendon is extremely grateful. He wants to ask if maybe there's a way to make it hurt less, or feel good, if there's a secret to finding that thread of pleasure that was tantalizingly out of reach, but they are all man/woman pairings, and Brendon thinks that even if they weren't, and even though they are friendly servants, they are still... _servants._ They're not his friends ( _Not yet, anyway,_ says a tiny voice in his head.)

Also, just thinking about _it_ makes Brendon flush and feel choked up -- he's not sure he could _speak_ about it. Like, _out loud._

*

Brendon doesn't know if he's supposed to move into Ryan's suite, or stay on the east side of the manor, or just go to Ryan's room every night. Ryan doesn't say anything -- nothing at all to him all day -- so after supper, when the sun is down and the stars are twinkling and the servants are in the barn, drinking wine Jamia gets from her cousin in Pahrump and laughing with each other, Brendon goes into the drawing room. Ryan is in his armchair as usual, cradling a cup of coffee and reading a thick book.

Ryan's father, during the two weeks before the marriage, yelled at Ryan several times for reading novels instead of studying the books for their business -- which, as far as Brendon can tell, involves keeping the estate running, and the hothouse farming. But Ryan just keeps reading novels, and sometimes Brendon's caught him writing, scratching carefully into school notebooks.

Brendon shifts from one foot to the other. Ryan's very well put together, even after a day in the heat of late spring; if he's warm or uncomfortable in his layers of fashionable clothes, Brendon can't tell. Ryan's not even sweating.

"What," says Ryan flatly.

"I thought perhaps tonight... if you wanted?" says Brendon. He feels timid, which is silly. This is his spouse under the law. He is entitled to be wherever he wants on the grounds, spend the money in the accounts, order around the servants -- as though anyone could ever tell Alicia or Gerard or Toro what to do -- and make menus for meals. Buy new clothes, order books from the east, take a trip on a train. He can talk to his spouse if he wants to.

Or if he feels like he has to, is supposed to.

This is nothing like his parents' marriage, which on one hand is pleasing, because Brendon doesn't want to have to cave to everything Ryan wants the way his mother does, but is awful, because at least his parents love each other.

"If I wanted?" Ryan doesn't even look up from his book. "Oh, of course."

He takes long strides through the house, up the stairs to his rooms. In the electric light and the glow of the fire embers, the gold and green of his wallpaper is eerie.

Ryan begins to strip, and his skin is like the wallpaper -- luminous and strange. "I suppose..." Ryan trails off and sighs, his scandalously fashionable tight pants half-unbuttoned, showing a light trail of hair that Brendon is -- interested in. But not really. But a little.

"I'm afraid I'm not very..." Brendon swallows hard. "Experienced," he manages. "You'll have to tell me what you like."

Ryan sighs impatiently, and Brendon feels terrible that he's not that knowledgeable and full of erotic understanding. He doesn't even -- that is. That is, he had never even kissed a woman, not even for a lark, not even as a joke; he had never wanted to kiss anyone. Still doesn't, not really, but maybe he does and just doesn't realize it.

Ryan's body is cool to the touch, cool through Brendon's clothes, and his mouth is soft on Brendon's, his teeth sharp when he sinks them into Brendon's lower lip. His tongue is wet where it swipes, and Brendon can see how this could be nice.

As Ryan kisses him, he unbuttons Brendon's shirt, and then his pants, and then his cold fingers are on Brendon's stomach, nails scratching lightly.

It feels good, but also... Brendon doesn't _like it._ It feels good, but in an abstract way, the way lying down after a hard day feels good, the way eating feels good when he's hungry, even if the food is bland.

It doesn't take very long. Ryan's pillow smells like spices, like ginger, but just tastes like cotton when Brendon bites it. Ryan falls asleep afterward quickly again, and Brendon would be suspicious that he's faking, except his eyelids don't even flutter when Brendon slides carefully out of the bed.

No one's in the kitchen when Brendon slides through to get to his room. He takes a leftover slice of pie with a huge dollop of the sweet whipped cream, dips a bucket of water out of the huge pot Bob keeps close to the fire for tea and coffee and chocolate, and then makes his way carefully up the stairs. Back in his room, he cleans up, wincing in pain and embarrassment, and uses more of Spencer's salve. The tin is almost empty. He only has enough left for maybe one more night.

The pie is delicious, though; Brendon loves the spicy molasses sauce melted over the apples, the crisp, flaky crust, the cold cream. He licks the last of the sauce off the plate before he crawls into bed.

*

Bob spends several days making Brendon chop things, until Brendon can slice an apple into perfectly even curves, each the same thickness. Now that he can do that, Bob is teaching Brendon to make pie dough, to smush up the lard and butter into flour. Next to him on one side, Lyn is polishing silver; on the other side, Toro is lingering, putting off doing whatever he's supposed to do in favor of drinking cup after cup of coffee, and quizzing Brendon on soldier songs.

"Mostly I know cowboy songs," Brendon says apologetically. He looks up to see Spencer coming through the door; he slides onto the bench opposite Brendon, and immediately there's a slice of last night's pie and a cup of coffee in front of him.

"I never thought I'd forget my soldiering songs," says Toro. He takes a long sip of coffee. "It's amazing the difference a few years makes."

"Soldiering must have been exciting," Brendon says wistfully. "Not that I want my life to be exciting -- more exciting. But --"

"It was awful," Toro tells him. "Stealing land from the Indians, helping corporations beat down miners who just wanted to be paid enough so they could feed their families, supporting the railroad, which took land away from freed slaves at an unfair price to make more money for the companies back east..." Toro stares into his cup and Brendon's sorry he said anything. "If I hadn't been discharged for getting shot, I'd've deserted, I think. It was -- hard. Awful. I joined up because I wanted to protect this country and enforce the Equality Laws, and instead... Well, we weren't protecting anything, not really."

Brendon looks down at the mess of flour and butter and lard -- lard, he had just learned that morning, was made from dead animals. But it was delicious, and not really, he'd reasoned, an animal at all. And even if it were really an animal... he's not a Saint. He has to keep reminding himself of that -- when he hesitates before drinking something hot, or wakes up early and starts to automatically get ready for church, or when he unthinkingly prays before bed. It doesn't matter anymore.

"My father and grandfather and uncles all fought in the War," Spencer says -- casually, but Brendon feels nervous, because he personally supports everyone being free. His uncle, his father's brother, fought for the Confederacy, and still sometimes complains using language Brendon's uncomfortable with about everyone being equal. Brendon had always wondered why his mother would wince almost as much as he had when his uncle would get into talking about the Confederacy, but he had never worked up the courage to ask her about her discomfort and the fact that her skin is so much tanner than most of his family's. He'd always figured that it wasn't his place to ask -- and now he'll never know.

It takes a moment, but Brendon realizes that he will also never hear his uncle complain again. He's happy -- but also a little sad.

And what if Spencer and Ryan, despite the relaxed atmosphere of the house, and all the weird servants, had been on the side of the Confederacy and believe in slaves?

Then Spencer continues. "I know Union songs -- a lot of them. They're great, all about freedom and equality."

Brendon lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and when he looks up, Spencer gives him a tiny smile. He smiles back.

"My mother fought in the War," Lyn says. "Union. She dressed up as a man and stole her father's gun. That's how she met my father, actually." She smiles, her mouth a sharp red bow. "He was the doctor who dug a graybelly ball out of her shoulder."

"Thank the good Lord for the Equality Laws," says Gerard. The door to the main house bangs shut behind him. He deposits dirty dishes on the counter and leans over to kiss Lyn on the mouth, holding his skirts out of the way. "But I don't know why any woman would want to wear pants when skirts are so much more comfortable."

"Skirts aren't practical for riding," says Spencer. When he lifts his coffee cup to his mouth, Toro lifts his, too, and reaches out to clink them together.

"Amen," he says, and he and Spencer exchange smiles full of secrets Brendon desperately wants to know.

*

Spencer still comes almost every day, but now he comes in the morning. First to the kitchens for food, and then to the study, where he secrets himself with Ryan for several hours. They usually take lunch on a tray; Frank likes to bring it to them, because he thinks Spencer looks good in his tight black pants. Brendon's trousers are all loose, but now that he's a married, a _joined_ man, he could have tight pants made for himself if he wants, in the style of Spencer and Ryan's. It seems wasteful, though, to buy new pants or have them made, when his old pants are serviceable.

Plus he thinks he would blush uncontrollably if Frank teased him about his backside in tight pants.

Spencer, Brendon finds out, does more than just work for Mr. Ross -- he keeps their books, and advises them on who to hire and what kind of plants to put in the ground and which vegetables and fruits in the hothouse are in demand. And he does all the work that Ryan is supposed to do, while Ryan lies on the couch and reads novels or writes letters. It's an open secret -- everyone knows. Except, Brendon guesses, Mr. Ross.

But before Spencer goes into the study with Ryan, or into the hothouse, or out to check the horses, he always stops into the kitchen to talk to Brendon. That's how Brendon finds out that Spencer has two younger sisters who are twins; his mother is a doctor and his father runs an apothecary for the small towns that have cropped up outside the city. And Spencer believes in joining -- never marrying -- for love.

Brendon had never thought about it before. Now it seems silly -- a man of eighteen, still living with his parents, never courted, never even thought about getting married and starting his own family, content to stay at home and go to church and help his uncle run the dry goods store that catered to the Saints in the city. He'd never been interested in the girls and their ruffles -- women in pants who voted and owned property did not frequent the store. He'd just... lived an unexamined life, he thinks. He didn't want anything or think about anything, or even really live -- except for the nights when he'd sneak out and go to Pete's.

Those nights it was like he was a different person.

He wonders, sometimes -- mostly when he talks to Spencer -- what would happen if he were to be that person all the time.

Today, when Spencer finishes his coffee and slice of pie, he says, "I'm going to head out to talk to Mikey about breeding the roan. Want to come to the stables?"

"Sure," says Brendon. He's finished with his pie dough lesson for the day -- an egg instead of water to bind the flour and fat makes a crisper crust that tastes almost like a cookie, and is good to hold custards because it doesn't get soggy. He wipes bits of dough off his hands and leaves the yellowish dough on the work table for Bob to use or throw away. As usual, he's wearing work trousers and a work shirt, the kind it was okay for him to get flour or sugar on, or accidentally cut with the sharp shears he'd use to measure out muslin.

When they get to the big hallway, Spencer yells, "Ryan!" and Ryan tumbles out of the study, clutching a bowler hat. The bowler hat certainly does not match his bizarre outfit -- pinstriped trousers and a matching vest over a bright white shirt with a purple bow tie. He even has a walking stick. The bowler has a feather in it, bright red.

Ryan settles it on his head and twirls the walking stick. Spencer smiles at him, a bright, wide smile, and it makes Brendon want to smile, too -- so he does, and Ryan smiles back at them. It is the first time, Brendon thinks, that he's ever seen Ryan smile.

While Spencer talks to Mikey, Brendon wanders around the barns. Alicia is in a stall, mucking it out, wearing denim overalls and a tight undershirt. Brendon is embarrassed and wants to look away -- he can see her arms, and her chest, and part of her back. She has black ink tattoos in script scrolling over her skin. He doesn't look away; Alicia is a modern woman and if she cared that he could see her arms, the words covering them, she would cover them up, he's sure.

They're just arms, anyway. Brendon keeps repeating that to himself. They're just arms. Who cares? It's not against the law, or immoral.

He leans against the wall of the barn and watches, and lets Alicia talk to him about horses, and how they hate wet hay, and how it's important to keep the dust out of their coats. He's never been close to horses -- he's always just walked anywhere he wanted to go. When Spencer and Mikey and Ryan come to the stall, Brendon is carefully curry-combing the palomino in circles.

"Brendon's a natural," says Alicia, and Brendon blushes.

"Before we leave, I want to check in on the pinto," says Ryan. He looks pointedly at Alicia, who just rolls her eyes.

"We all know she's your favorite, Ry," says Alicia. "You can say her name."

"I certainly did not name her. I'd never name a horse." Ryan sniffs a little.

"Lies," says Spencer, and pokes a finger at Ryan's midsection. Ryan swats at him with the walking stick, but doesn't even try to hit them.

"Fine," says Ryan long-sufferingly. "I want to say hello to Hobo. I brought her a carrot."

Hobo. Brendon's heard that word before -- that's what his uncle called the soldiers who ride the trains looking for work, who live on the trains and travel across the country.

Alicia leads Ryan down the barn to the end, where several pregnant horses are in a corral. Brendon puts the curry comb down on the shelf and pets the palomino's soft, velvety nose before following with Spencer.

Spencer leans on the wood of the corral fence and scratches his chin.

"Can I maybe ask you something?" Spencer doesn't look at him, just keeps staring out at Ryan, who is nuzzling a beautiful, hugely pregnant horse.

"Sure," says Brendon. He leans on the wooden fence, too, and tries to look as natural doing it as Spencer, but knows he just looks like an awkward city kid who can't even make good pie crust yet.

"Why didn't you just run away?" asks Spencer. He doesn't look at Brendon; he keeps his eyes on Ryan, who is nuzzling one of the large horses.

Brendon keeps his face neutral anyway. Why _didn't_ he run away? Because he -- he wanted to do this in case his father would one day forgive him. Because he did not know how to survive without his family's money -- no, that's not even true; he could have gone to Pete and Patrick and Ashlee and Travie, and they'd've helped him. Because... because he knew George Ross's son was at least not ugly, with no reputation for cruelty, and Brendon, in the moments he'd had between finding out what was happening and climbing into that carriage, wanted to know what it was like. To be married and have a family like his parents, but also to lie with a man.

Oh, God. Brendon dislikes thinking about his own motivations _intensely._

He decides on an answer. "I didn't run away because I didn't really have that option, not unless I wanted to jump out of a moving carriage in the middle of the city."

"Well, I..." Spencer stops, and when Brendon looks at him, he's looking down at his own hands. "I am glad you decided to come. Perhaps you'll be a good influence on Ryan. He listens to me, but only... to a point."

Brendon scoffs. "A good influence? Sure, if you want him to end up reading penny dreadfuls and playing piano in a saloon and spending time with disreputable --"

Spencer interrupts him -- not just with words, but with a hand on Brendon's bare arm. "That is exactly what I want. Ryan doesn't have fun anymore -- just works and lets his father yell at him, and sometimes gets away by spending time with me -- us," he amends, "but it's not enough. He always..." Spencer's hand tightens on Brendon's arm, and Brendon feels flushed, but doesn't know why. It's not a big deal. He keeps telling himself that. No reason to feel this -- _longing._ "Ryan used to want to run away with the circus. I want that for him."

Brendon opens his mouth to point out how terrible circuses are, full of mean people who steal your money and don't know God, but shuts it again when he realizes that he knows only what his father's told him... and he did, too, at one time dream of running away with a circus and playing ominous drums for a woman walking on a rope high above the ground.

 _Hobo,_ he thinks. It makes a little bit of sense.

"Not that exactly, maybe," Spencer continues, "but something. Something fun, and lovely, to take away all this..." He lets go of Brendon's arm and waves his hand at the manor and estate. "All this."

There's a terrible crash, and a shriek, and Brendon and Spencer both leap to their feet -- but it's only that Ryan has fallen, slipped on a piece of hay or a horse pie or something, and the horse he had been petting is nosing at his stomach, licking him, searching for carrots in his pocket, or sugar cubes, and Ryan... Ryan is shrieking with laughter.

But Brendon still... still does not want to take him to bed.

 _There is something wrong with me,_ he thinks, as he watches Spencer, hair and smile shining in the sun, tackle Ryan and begin to tickle him like the horse.

*

Spencer stays all day, out in the sun with the horses, and then into the hothouse where Brendon still hasn't ever gone; the heat coming from there is awful, and it's damp in a way that makes it so hard to breathe. There shouldn't be that much water in the desert -- of that Brendon is certain.

Brendon goes back into the kitchen and makes more pie crust with Bob and Gerard, and helps slice the cheese for supper.

They have onion soup for supper, with stringy cheese melted on top, and Ryan burns his fingers on the bowl, his mouth on the broth, and pushes the bowl away still half-full, frowning, and wanders away from the table. Brendon and Spencer stay, finish, and Spencer even eats a salad of roasted vegetables, while Brendon nibbles the star-shaped cookies Bob made out of Brendon's attempts at pie crust. They melt in his mouth.

Mr. Ross isn't home; it's a Saturday night, so he's in the city, gambling. Just like almost every other night, but he left earlier, before the sun was even setting, and won't be home until Monday morning, when he'll sleep all day and night and then leave again on Tuesday.

When Spencer's finished with his vegetables, he says to Brendon, "So you play the piano?"

"Yes," replies Brendon cautiously.

"Would you play tonight?" requests Spencer. He sounds like it would be okay if Brendon said no, but Brendon doesn't want to say no.

Ryan is in the room, sprawled boneless in an armchair, shiny yellow shoes catching all the lights. Brendon settles at the piano, flexes his fingers, puts them on the keys, and doesn't know what to play. He stares at the keys until Spencer leans on the piano.

"Are you okay?" asks Spencer. His hair falls into his face. He's growing out a beard and mustache, and they are darker. Brendon can't grow a pretty, even beard like Spencer's; his is always patchy and dark and unattractive.

"What would you like to hear?" Brendon replies.

"Anything. Something... something I've never heard before."

Brendon had been thinking about safe, standard hymns, but instead he finds himself playing a sad cowboy song that had been a favorite of a particular guy at Pete's, the bartender, a black retired cowboy named Travie who'd taught it to him. Brendon lets himself pour all his frustration into the words of the song, ending with the slow, sad, "I reckon I would work for any wage to be again, be free again where the bloom is on the sage."

He closes his eyes as the music fades from the room, and when he opens them again, Spencer is staring at him like he knows just how sad and trapped Brendon feels, like he feels the same way.

"I think I'm going to go home," Spencer says, loud enough for Ryan to hear. "Thank you for playing for me."

"I'll see you out," announces Brendon, and leaps to his feet. Ryan doesn't move from his armchair or look up from his book -- not even when Spencer fondly kisses the top of his head.

"Bye," he murmurs; Brendon doesn't think Spencer heard, since Spencer is already halfway down the hall. Brendon jogs to catch up.

"You don't have to see me out, you know." Spencer sounds amused but not annoyed, so Brendon is relieved. "I think I feel more at home here than you do. That song --" Spencer shakes his head.

Brendon ignores it. "I'm sure that's true, but I wanted -- to ask --" Brendon stops, because even though he's been going over this in his head all evening, he still doesn't know what to say or how to say it.

Spencer waits patiently. His hair is always shiny -- in the bright sunlight of midday, in the modern electric lights of the library and dining room, in the old-fashioned flickering of the candles and kerosene lamps that dot the hallways. It falls across his face in a way that makes Brendon want to touch it, run his hands through it, know if it _feels_ as soft and shiny as it looks. Sometimes, when Spencer wears a hat, his hair is hidden, but Brendon would always know it was Spencer standing there -- the way he cocks his hips like he expects to draw a gun; the way he moves his shoulders.

Finally Brendon stutters out his question: "Do you have any more? Of the salve? In the tin? I need -- I mean, it's not that Ryan -- I mean, of course I am happy to do my marital -- but it -- and it helped?"

Spencer's eyes get narrower and narrower, and under his small moustache, his mouth is tight, like when he sees Mr. Ross come home drunk and stumble into the dining room to yell at Ryan.

"You should not still need the salve," he finally says to Brendon. "Ryan should be -- he should be careful with you."

"Oh, he is," Brendon assures Spencer, even though it's clear Spencer knows that's untrue; Ryan does not, it seems, take care with anyone, including himself. "But I -- it's my own fault -- I am not --"

Spencer cuts him off. "I'll bring more tomorrow. Don't hesitate to ask again if you run out. And I will talk to Ryan."

"Oh, no, please don't do that -- I don't want to -- I mean, I know --"

"He won't -- Brendon, he's not like his father. He won't... hurt you."

"Oh, I know," Brendon rushes to assure him. Ryan would not hurt anyone. On purpose. "But I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings, or make him feel like I am less than enthusiastic about. Him."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Sure, Brendon. Because you saw him from across the room one night and were determined to leave your family, friends, and church behind for love? Come on. Whatever reason you have for staying, we all know it is not that -- even Ryan. And Ryan..." Spencer shakes his head. "Sometimes Ryan, I think, doesn't believe the rest of us are real. Not that he's dreaming or imagining -- or mad. But that he's... alone in a world of automatons who he's created. We're not really human. Nothing is real to him."

"That sounds like madness to me," mutters Brendon. He sticks his hands into his pockets and clenches them into fists.

"Don't you ever feel that way?" When he looks up, Spencer is smiling -- an odd smile, a strange smile. "Don't you ever feel like perhaps there is no reality? For surely if this were all real, we'd all be so much less unhappy... no?"

Carefully, Spencer nudges Brendon out of the way of the door and leaves. He's gone before Brendon can think of what to say in return. Because -- because yes. Because if this were real life, wouldn't Brendon know what he wanted? And why? Wouldn't he feel good more than bad? Wouldn't he care about things, instead of --

Wouldn't he want his spouse, the way normal people do, instead of looking for ways to avoid intimacy?

Wouldn't he feel something other than sadness and a strange desperation?

Maybe Ryan is right. Maybe Brendon is not real.

*

The next day, Spencer brings a larger tin of the salve; he hides it in a burlap sack that also has papers his father has sent, the freedom songs he'd remembered and written down, and several new shirts.

"Joining gifts," Spencer says, ducking his head a little, when Brendon pulls out the blue and white striped shirt. He can wear it without a tie, but it's nice enough for a party or church. If Brendon still went to church. He blushes, and behind him he can hear Frank titter.

"Thank you," says Brendon. His voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat, but he can't get rid of the lump stuck in it. No one else gave him gifts; they didn't even have a special cake. And they weren't sealed in the temple -- they weren't married in heaven, won't be married after death. But... Brendon doesn't think he'll mind, and he _knows_ Ryan doesn't care.

Brendon is going to be literally and metaphorically alone forever.

His thoughts must show on his face, because Spencer isn't smiling anymore. "Brendon, I'm sorry, I didn't --"

"No, thank you," Brendon says, and plasters a smile on his face. It's not Spencer's fault. "The shirts are lovely. I've never had a blue shirt."

"I noticed -- white and brown." Spencer's still not smiling. He drains his coffee and stands. "I'm off to the fields today; is there --"

Bob has a sack for him before he even finishes the question. "Sandwiches, some apples. Several pies to share. Brendon made the crust for one. And Jamia will be out with stew and bread as usual, if you're there in time."

Spencer flashes Brendon a real smile, and tosses the sack over a shoulder. "See you at supper, then."

Brendon doesn't realize that he's staring longingly at Spencer until Frank jostles his arm. "So you and Ryan and Spencer, huh?" he says. "I always knew the two of them --"

"Frank!" says Toro sternly. "Not appropriate."

"Really?" Brendon sucks in a harsh breath. "I didn't. If -- why didn't they get married, then?"

Frank shrugs, Toro glares, and Bob turns from the stove. "Frank, what the hell is wrong with you?" he demands.

Frank's mouth turns down. "I'm just saying what we're all thinking!" he defends.

Bob turns to Brendon. "They're like brothers," he says. "Frank is just --"

"It's pretty to think about," Frank sighs, and slumps against Toro. "Sorry, Brendon, I didn't mean to --"

"No, it's okay," says Brendon. He stands, leaving the small piles of lard, butter, and flour. "I'm going to put these things away. I'll see you all later."

When Brendon gets upstairs, he puts the tin in the bedside table, alongside his Bible and the jar of scented oil -- the same jar that's in Ryan's room. He doesn't know where it came from -- probably Gerard and Lyn when they were making up the rooms, thinking they were doing him a favor. He's overheard snippets of conversation... he knows they think it's weird he doesn't sleep in Ryan's room, that he hasn't moved out of the east wing. But what do they know?

They all are together for love.

*

Spencer goes to Mr. Ross and asks to be sent to Texas to buy mustangs to breed with some of their horses. Spencer thinks expanding their horse breeding program with strong horses from Texas and Mexico will make a lot of money. He explained it all to Ryan and Brendon over supper last week, practiced what he was going to say to Mr. Ross, timed it so he got to Mr. Ross after the first few drinks he usually has at home, but before he left to drink more and gamble.

It's one of the nights Brendon usually goes to Ryan, but instead they stay up, celebrating with Spencer, and Brendon plays the piano and sings Spencer's father's Union songs -- "We will drive the Rebel forces from their strongholds to the sea, and will live and die together in the Army of the Free," sings Brendon loudly -- and by the end of the night, the house staff are all in the room, singing along, Toro's voice raising above the rest.

Brendon almost swallows his tongue when Gerard lazily leans over and kisses Frank, twines their fingers together, and leaves the room with him. He hits the wrong key and then another wrong key when Lyn and Jamia's laughter rings out over the singing. Brendon keeps playing and singing as they leave together, then Toro and Bob, then Spencer and Ryan are left, sprawled on opposite sides of Ryan's favorite couch.

Brendon lowers the cover on the piano. "Doesn't it -- bother you?" he says, staring at the glossy wood.

"What?" Spencer looks at Brendon and then out the door. "They're free."

"We're all free," says Ryan, but there's a bite to his voice that Spencer's didn't have, like Ryan knows what Brendon knows, that even the Equality Laws don't make anyone really free, not as long as there's money and religion and parents and marriage.

"I know that Mormons are more rigid about... relationships." Spencer sounds like he's trying to be delicate. "Is it... a problem for you?"

"No," sighs Brendon, and he knows he sounds more wistful than he means to. But he's jealous -- so jealous. He's so alone, and they... aren't. "It's just hard to get used to. I'm happy for them."

Spencer elbows Ryan, whose eyes have unfocused. "I'm just thinking about Lyn and Jamia," he says dreamily. Brendon feels his heart clench.

"I have to go -- I have to go," says Brendon, and he almost trips on his own feet getting off the padded stool. He flees to his bedroom without even bidding goodnight to Spencer, and leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor, and even though he's already too warm, he burrows under all his covers, hiding in the dark where no one else can hear the rhythm of his heart pounding a word with each beat. _He. Doesn't. Want. Me. He. Doesn't. Even. Want. Me. He. Won't. Ever. Really. Want. Me._

*

Spencer takes Ryan. They don't even ask Brendon to go -- not that he'd want to. It's three days to get to Laredo, and Spencer's allotted for two weeks there. Then three days to get home with the new mustangs. People come from all over the world to gamble in the city; they have a large train station, kept in good repair, and two high class hotels just for train passengers staying overnight.

Brendon wouldn't want to be stuck on a train with Ryan and Spencer, anyway. He wouldn't want to go to Texas and Mexico and be killed by highwaymen or gunslingers. Spencer looks like a gunslinger but he doesn't carry a gun, and what if Brendon was shot. No one would be at his funeral except the Rosses' servants. Maybe Spencer, too.

The railroad is dangerous. Texas is dangerous. Mexico is dangerous. Brendon has never been out of Nevada.

The first day they're gone, Brendon spends the whole day in the kitchen. It's so warm out now that the kitchen is almost stifling, even with its outside door open to the back fields. He quizzes Bob about the stews he cooks -- Bob is always cooking something -- and he helps Jamia polish the good silver. He takes all his meals with the servants, and avoids Mr. Ross.

He does the same thing the next day, and the next, and the next. He hadn't realized how much he depended on Spencer to come and talk to him, to lighten Ryan's heavy moods. To keep him from going stir-crazy. The third day he helps Lyn with the laundry; the fourth day, he spends most of the day in the stables, curry-combing the horses and learning to braid their manes with ribbon.

The worst are the nights, after supper, when he usually sits with Spencer and Ryan and plays piano; once or twice, Gerard and Lyn have sung with him, but most of the time they're off doing their own thing, and he's alone with the yellow electric light and funny-smelling books until he goes to bed and stares at the ceiling, trying desperately to empty his mind before he falls asleep.

Late on the fifth day, close to supper time, Toro finds Brendon in the hallway in the west wing, where he and Gerard are refolding all the antique lace tablecloths so the lace doesn't get settled into one fold and pull out of shape. Brendon squints up at Toro, who's standing in front of the window, in front of the beams of the setting sun.

"Wanna run to the barn for me to find Bob?" Toro asks. "The stew's on the fire, but no one's sure if they're supposed to stir it or leave it alone, and he went out a while ago to give carrots to the horses."

"He's giving carrots to the horses without me?" Brendon asks. He lets his mouth fall open in mock outrage. "Sure, I'll go. No one else wants to brave his alone time?"

Toro rolls his eyes, and crouches down as Brendon leaps up and dashes down the hallway, stretching his legs. As much as he likes spending time with Gerard, refolding the antique lace is really _boring._ He pushes his feet into Frank's old moccasins that stay in the kitchen for whenever anyone has to go to the barn -- they all know better than to go to the barn in bare feet and risk a lecture on blood poisoning from Alicia.

He lets himself fly over the field to the barn and slam into the side of the wall, and fall backwards into the grass. Then he gets up and goes around to the open side. There's oilcloth to unroll to make the corral totally closed, like a tent, and the side of the barn that opens east to the corral also has oilcloth. The rest of the barn is built of thick adobe brick, keeping it cool when it's warm out and warm when it's cold. It's easy to see into in the morning, but hard when the sun is on the other side of the barn in the afternoon and evening.

Brendon knows better -- now -- than to yell into the barn. Most of the horses are in the corrals -- the pregnant ones in a smallish one that's usually shaded, the others in a bigger one where they can run across the grounds, the really mean mustang in a small third -- but sick, lame, and particularly skittish horses are always in the barn, and they hate when people yell.

He walks in slowly, letting his scent go in first. There's a huge bunch of carrots in the pail by the door; Brendon takes two and breaks them up, and lets each horse he passes lip a piece of carrot off his flat palm.

There's no one in the barn and no one in the barn and no one in the barn until Brendon hits the tack room -- normally Alicia's domain, because she insists no one waxes the bridles correctly, but he can hear Bob's voice coming from it. The door's closed, though, and the peg and string are inside, and Brendon glances through the small window before knocking on it -- and his hand stalls halfway to the wood.

Mikey has Bob bent over the low table, just like Ryan bends Brendon over pillows on the bed. Mikey's hand is even on Bob's back, the middle, where Ryan puts his hand. But that's really the only similarities, as far as Brendon can see. Bob's face is turned and Mikey is leaning low, and they're kissing, brushing their faces together as Mikey shoves in. And Bob looks -- he looks like it feels good.

Brendon had been figuring that what felt good was being on top, and the person on the bottom would just take it until it was his turn to be on top. But... Bob's eyes are closed and his mouth is open, and he's biting at Mikey's mouth and grunting and the things he's saying... Brendon's face feels like it's on fire. He puts a hand to his mouth and bites his palm; he can feel his heartbeat in his thumb, pulsing faster and faster.

So it's supposed to feel good. It isn't supposed to hurt so much every time, or be so _awful._

As Brendon watches, Mikey tosses his head back, and then bites Bob on the shoulder. Even though Brendon is standing still, he loses his footing, slipping and catching himself on the wall, crouching down. Bob's groan stops abruptly.

"What was that?" Brendon hears Bob ask, panting in between words. Then one of the horses -- Brendon's favorite palomino with a lame foot from a bad shoe -- whinnies and bangs into the side of his stall.

"Just a horse," says Mikey. Brendon can see through the hole in the door, can see their hips pressed together. He can't catch his breath.

He slides out of the barn and goes back to the house, toeing off the moccasins outside the kitchen. Toro looks up from where he's counting out money on the table.

"Find Bob?" he asks. He uncrumples a greenback and puts it in a short stack.

"He's busy with Mikey," Brendon says, and hopes Toro thinks his blush is from running in the sun. "I'll just stir it. If it doesn't have a cover on it, stirring keeps a skin from forming."

"Quite a little cook now, aren't you?" says Toro, and Brendon bristles a little. His dad had thought cooking was women's work and beneath him and Brendon -- but Toro's tone is almost... complimenting. Approving.

"I like it," says Brendon, and he can't keep the defensiveness out of his voice. He holds his face too far over the fire while he stirs the stew; there's no way he can cool off, so he might as well try to sweat it out of himself.

*

Brendon helps bring the supper out to the field hands and tries to keep busy all night. Several of them have children who come out for the meal, and after Brendon's finished dishing out stew and bread and apples, he starts a game of tag.

Most of the field hands are black, but there are some who are white, too, and some who are Mexican, and they all work next to each other, which Brendon's never seen before. In the part of the city that's mostly Saints, it's all white, except for -- except for the freed slaves who still work for their old owners and never smile.

Brendon likes it like this much better, and figures that most people do, too. Everybody equal, everybody the same, getting to talk about who they love and who they are with no one to say boo to them for it.

The workers all live on the other side of the fields, close to the mountains, in small houses. They have their own kitchens in their houses, but part of their pay is two meals every work day, which is why Bob is always cooking something; Brendon figures it takes a lot of food to feed everyone. Spencer had explained it to Brendon, showing him the books while he taught Brendon how the Rosses' business was run. Anyone who works on the estate gets a place to live and a decent wage, plus two meals, doctoring if they are hurt while working, and schooling for the children at the schoolhouse the next town over if they want it. Black, white, Chinese, Mexican, Indian, man, woman, whatever, it didn't matter -- everybody gets treated equal. Not just because of the Equality Laws, either.

"George is a nasty drunk," Spencer had said in a low voice, "but a progressive one." But Brendon had gotten the idea that Spencer had put the notions into Mr. Ross's head at some point, that Spencer really believed everybody ought to be treated equally. It made him want to meet Spencer's parents, meet the people who fostered those beliefs in their son, since Brendon's own parents never even wanted slavery to be abolished, the least of what the Equality Laws had done.

When the children are exhausted, Brendon still has a lot of energy, but he flops onto the hard ground and stares up at the sky. The sun is barely setting but the moon is out, and some of the stars. He wonders why he grew up thinking his parents were wrong, how it was that even though everything he'd been taught was that people weren't equal, he still believes they are, deep in his heart.

He wonders what his life would've been like without the Equality Laws. He's almost to mission age; would his parents have let him keep sneaking out until he was nineteen, and then sent him on a mission? Sent him across the world to preach the word of the angel Moroni to unbelievers?

Brendon wonders if he'd've even been able to do it. Would he have been able to try to convince people to believe what he himself wasn't even sure he believed? Or would he have run away then, in a strange country, to find people more like him?

He never would have met Ryan. He never would have met Spencer.

He doesn't want to think about that. He blocks it out, shoves it into the same corner of his mind where he's keeping the look on Bob's face, the look of total ecstasy as Mikey shoved into him.

*

Brendon is restless that night. He's too hot, even with the fire totally out and the windows thrown open. He's already stripped off his undershirt, and the quilts and sheets are thrown to the bottom of his bed, but there's no wind, and his skin feels tight over his bones, even on his face. He kicks off his shorts and lets them fall off the bed, lies spread out, aching for any breeze at all.

He throws his hand out to the bedside table. Maybe if he drinks some water, or drizzles it on his skin... but he hits the pot of oil first, and the glass top rattles off, filling the room with a fresh, green scent. The oil in Ryan's room smells dark and nutty, but this is nice, relaxing.

Tonight would have been a Ryan night. Brendon keeps track, so that he can feel assured that he's doing his marital duty, so he can look forward to the nights or dread them, depending on how he's felt all day. He doesn't hate all of it. He likes the part where Ryan touches his skin, and when Ryan traces his entrance with the oil, rubs it into him with one long finger.

Brendon shivers just thinking about it, and lets the green scent of the oil fill him. Bob hadn't looked like he was in pain at all. And Spencer... Spencer keeps him supplied with tins of the honey-scented salve, but seems surprised about it every time Brendon gives back a tin to be refilled, like Brendon is doing something wrong. Or like Ryan is doing something wrong.

The glass jar is cool even though Brendon is stiflingly warm. When he dips his fingers into the oil, it coats them immediately, like when Brendon rubs fat into flour, but nicer, smoother than butter or lard. Brendon thinks about Bob's face and moves his hand down between his legs. He bypasses his penis... he knows what touching that feels like. He knows it's not against the rules anymore, but he doesn't do it often, because... well, because he can't get over the feeling that he's doing something wrong, that he's supposed to save it for the marriage bed.

But Ryan's never touched him there. Not even once. Not even accidentally.

The oil drips onto the sheets before Brendon can get his fingers to himself, but he ignores it. He'll help with the wash; no one will notice. He rubs his slick fingers over his hole, doesn't think about what he's doing, just touches himself. It's hard to get his hand at a good angle; he flips over onto his stomach, even though he doesn't want to, and it's easier. He doesn't dip inside, just rubs the rim of his hole, the oil sliding and slippery, getting all over everything.

When he dips his fingers to get more oil, they brush against his penis, and he shakes -- the slickness is amazing; he's never felt anything like it before. He slicks up as much of his hand as he can, leans on his elbow with his forehead resting on his pillow, and rubs, jerking himself.

 _Cock,_ he says to himself. _Dick. Jerking off. Fu-u-u-ck --_

His hips stutter, almost disappointingly quickly, and he comes all over his hand and sheet. His elbow gives out and he falls over onto the other side of the bed. He's still... it felt good, but he's not... he can't imagine making the faces that Bob was making. He rolls back over -- the sheets are wet and slick and kind of gross, and he's sensitive -- and moves his messy hand back again. He feels overstimulated, like he wants to run across the fields and do handstands against the barn, and touching his hole, tracing around it, dipping inside... it makes his insides shivery.

It still doesn't feel the way he thinks maybe it's supposed to feel, but it does feel good, even two fingers stretching. Not like when Ryan stretches him -- then he just wants to shrink away from Ryan's bored, bony fingers, but now he wants _more._

He falls asleep wanting more.

*

"No offense to you all, but I'm bored." Brendon slumps over his lunch -- leftover eggs from breakfast, rolled in a tortilla with pickled tomatoes. Everyone else has bacon or sausage, too, but Brendon still can't bring himself to eat meat. He's pulled his tortilla open and scraped everything out of it, and is eating ripped-off pieces of tortilla.

"Maybe they'll bring you back something. A gift. A book in Spanish." Frank plucks a pickled tomato off Brendon's plate.

"I can't read Spanish." Brendon pushes the other pickled tomatoes over to the side of the plate so Frank has easier access. He keeps his eyes on his plate -- every time he catches a glimpse of Bob, he thinks of Bob and Mikey in the barn yesterday; he wants it to be night again so he can try with more fingers, or for longer, or -- or _something._ "I'm going crazy here. Maybe I should ask one of the field hands to teach me about planting and working the fields."

"Mr. Ross would kill you. Or just be mad," Frank amends. "But you shouldn't do that unless you check with Spencer first. Don't you have any friends or anything?" Frank shoves three of the tomatoes in his mouth.

"Not anymore." Brendon pushes the scrambled egg to the side, too. "Except..." Except Pete and Patrick. And Travie and Ashlee. He hasn't seen them since that night. Months. And Pete doesn't care about propriety or embarrassment; Brendon might be able to ask him what he's doing wrong with Ryan and not die of the humiliation. But he can't ride into the city on his own -- he's not Mr. Ross, who everyone knows and no one would ever bother, and he can't even shoot a gun. "Hey, do you ever go into the city? Go out, I mean?"

"Into the city-city? That's hours." Frank picks at Brendon's eggs, until a wooden spoon comes down on his hand.

Bob sits down on the bench across the table. "We don't really go into the city, but if you wanted to, you can have the carriage brought around. Or a horse. We were all wondering why you've been sequestering yourself."

"Oooh, sequestering," says Frank. "Bob, it makes me hot when you use big words like an edumacated man."

Bob hits Frank on the hand again with the wooden spoon. "I'll make you hot," he says, and somehow it sounds threatening and... _not_ threatening at the same time. Frank's answering grin makes _Brendon_ hot, and itchy under his collar, and he shifts on the bench.

"I'm going into the city tonight, then," Brendon says. "No one needs me here for anything, right? Maybe I'll stay over. Is there --" He breaks off. Because he has no money. He has no bank account. He has no letter of credit. He can get into the city, but can't stay over, and if neither Pete nor Patrick nor Travie are in the club, he might not even be able to get into the club to play the piano, much less try Coca-Cola for the very first time. "Never mind," says Brendon on a sigh.

"Ah... if you're wondering about funds, I believe the bank book with your name on it is in the top drawer of Ryan's desk, along with his bank book, his will, his father's will, your marriage certificate --"

"Really?" asks Brendon. He pushes aside his plate and practically throws himself over the bench. When he gets into the study, he's got everyone following him, and when he finds the bank book, he has to sit down in Ryan's chair when he sees the number of zeroes in the account with his name on it. "What am I supposed to do with this money?"

He looks up into everyone's smiling faces. "Buy us drinks?" suggests Frank.

"Not everyone can go," says Toro firmly. "Mr. Ross is still here and will still need service, and the hands..." He sucks on his lower lip. "I'll stay. And -- Bob." When Brendon's eyes flick to Bob, Bob is inexplicably blushing. But then Brendon remembers last week, when Toro and Bob left while he was playing piano, and he flushes, too.

His father would say that this house is a den of iniquity, of Godlessness, but Brendon likes it. It's just more proof that Brendon would never have been a Saint anyway, that he shouldn't still lament the heaven that's lost to him.

"I want to go," says Frank stubbornly. Brendon watches Jamia and Lyn look at each other and have a conversation with just their eyebrows, the way Spencer and Ryan do sometimes, especially if Mr. Ross is in the room.

"Gerard, why don't you go, too?" suggests Lyn. "Have a night out with Brendon. Teach him to shoot tequila and smoke cigars."

Gerard laughs his funny high-pitched giggle. "Coca-Cola and popcorn," he offers in return, like it's an inside joke, and then he smiles and squeezes Frank's hand. Brendon's heart skips a beat. It's not fair that they are all so happy while he is miserable and lonely.

He pushes that thought away; it's unfair. He likes them all and wants them to be happy -- is _glad_ they are all happy and iniquitous.

"We should go to the Eureka Saloon," Frank says excitedly. "I hear they have dancers in _cages!"_

"No," says Brendon. He shuts the bank book and tucks it into his pocket. He'll wear his vest with the gold stripes and deep pockets; if they go in early, they can go to the bank for greenbacks, then out for a nice supper -- although surely it won't be very much better than anything Bob can produce -- and then to Pete and Patrick's. "I want to go to the Decadence Club."

"Brendon, I don't think -- well." Toro puts a hand on Brendon's shoulder. "I don't think you'll be able to get in there. Maybe for your first --"

"Oh, no," Brendon says. He smiles up at Toro, a real smile, not his plastered-on one. A real smile for the first time in a long time. "I know the owners. I used to play piano there. That's -- that's why I'm here now. My father caught me sneaking out -- sneaking in," he amends. "I brought shame to the family, et cetera. You know how it is."

There's silence all around for a few moments. Brendon knows they're talking about him with their eyebrows. Then Jamia says loudly, "Decadence Club it is! Brendon, how do you feel about a bit of kohl around your eyes?"

*

Decadence Club is the same as the last time Brendon had come, which seems wrong. Shouldn't everything be completely different? Brendon is completely different. He'd realized in the carriage, while Gerard held Frank down and painted ridiculous designs on his face, that he doesn't look different. He doesn't even have a wedding ring or... anything.

They'd stopped at the bank and then the hotel, and then walked over to the Decadence Club after Mikey was assured that the horses would be taken care of at the hotel's stables. Brendon had shared out greenbacks, despite Gerard's protests, and squared his shoulders as they stepped through Decadence's doors.

It's still early, so no one's at the doors, but Travie's already behind the bar and he hoots when Brendon comes in. Then Pete's jumping on him and kissing him all over his face, and Patrick is shaking his hand, and Joe and Marie are clapping him on the shoulders. Ashlee comes out from the back and kisses his cheek gently, her thigh holster a familiar weight against Brendon's leg when she hugs him. ("Biggest gun in the whole joint," Pete likes to say, leering. It always makes Brendon blush.)

Frank, Gerard, and Mikey knew Brendon had played piano here, Brendon had told them, but he guesses they hadn't believed him, because they all look surprised.

Before Brendon can say anything, tell them why he hasn't been around, he's being shoved to the piano, and Patrick is playing the first bars of "Behold the Lord High Executioner," like Brendon can't recognize the Gilbert and Sullivan song Patrick himself had taught him? And it's _on._ Brendon rolls his neck, stretches his arms, and puts his fingers on the familiar keys.

*

Frank and Gerard are swaying together on the dance floor. It looks a little weird to Brendon, since Gerard had forgone the skirts for tight trousers and knee-high boots, but they're happy together, and Brendon likes that. Pete is with Mikey, and Mikey's even _smiling,_ which is pretty rare, as far as Brendon knows. He's thrilled everyone's getting along, but it means he's alone at the bar. Even Ashlee isn't around, because she's filling in for Travie at the bar, pouring shots at the other end of the bar for slick Easterners come out west to see cows and ride the railroad or whatever it is Easterners do in Nevada. Gamble, probably.

Brendon hears the clink of spurs before he feels the presence leaning over him and breath on his neck. "Howdy, pardner," drawls someone in his ear. Brendon knows that voice -- he relaxes into the body behind him, letting the man squeeze his shoulders in a hug.

"Travie," says Brendon joyfully. Travie leans his long body on the bar and grins at Brendon from under his black hat. He'd always told Brendon he wore it to remind himself not to fall in love, because he had a black heart, but once Brendon knew what to look for, it was easy to see Travie's happiness every time Ashlee came into the room. Black heart, indeed. Brendon is pretty sure Travie wears a black cowboy hat mostly because it makes him look intimidating. That and his height, and his strange tattoos... but Brendon knows he has a core of mushy oatmeal.

"Shouldn't you be behind the bar?" Brendon asks.

"Nah, slow night. Ashlee can handle it. So..." Travie nods at Brendon's glass. "You haven't been around for a while, and you come back drinking Coca-Cola? What happened?"

Brendon sighs. He still hasn't sipped the cola. What if it's not as delicious as he's been hoping?

"I got married," he tells the glass. "My dad arranged my marriage to Ryan Ross -- you know. The Rosses. And basically told me never to come home again and kicked me out of the church. And for some reason, instead of running away and coming here to live a glamorous life of playing piano and drinking Coca-Cola, I actually went, and got married, and live hours out of the city and never go anywhere and -- and all my friends -- and." Brendon takes a deep breath and is humiliated to realize he's practically crying.

Travie's hand on Brendon's back isn't even comforting, because it's right where Ryan puts his hand to hold Brendon down.

Brendon pushes his glass aside and puts his head down on the bar.

"Jesus, Brendon," Travie says, and rubs his head a little. Brendon's hair is getting really long, and Travie's fingers snarl in it. "That's... a good reason for not showing up, I guess."

Brendon gets control of himself, and sits back up again, shaking Travie's hand off his head. "Ryan's out of town, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to spend a few nights in the city and see you guys."

"Does he not let you leave the ranch?"

"They call it an estate." Brendon sighs, and Travie makes a weird noise; when Brendon looks at him, Travie starts to laugh.

"Sorry, man, I can't help it! You live on an estate! You're rich now, you could probably spend every night at the hotel next door and not even make a dent in the bank balance of the Rosses," says Travie. He reaches out with a tattooed hand and takes Brendon's Coca-Cola, downs it all in almost one gulp.

"I want to be a good spouse. I know, I'm stupid."

"Nah, not stupid." Travie squeezes his arm. "Romantic."

Brendon ignores his blush. "You'd know all about being romantic, right?" He nods toward Ashlee, and Travie's laugh shuts down. "Sorry. I know. Sorry."

"S'okay," says Travie, but looks away.

"Hey, do you think..." Brendon tugs on Travie's sleeve. "Do you think you could give me some advice? I know that you like women, but --"

"Whoa, I am not the guy to give you advice." Travie holds his hands out. "I think Pete's the man for that. He's full of advice."

"I want _good_ advice," says Brendon, and Travie cracks a grin. After a moment, so does Brendon.

"I'll let Pete know you want --" Travie breaks off as the door swings open and someone in black swaggers in. "Later, Brendon, gotta roll." The person who just came in is wearing a gun; no one's allowed to wear a gun in Decadence Club except Ashlee, who wears three, so Travie's going to, Brendon knows, give the person two choices: Hand over the gun to Ashlee to put in the lockbox, or leave the club.

Once someone tried to outdraw Ashlee, and she shot the guy's hat off. It was amazing. Brendon's heart hadn't slowed down that whole night.

He catches Ashlee's eye and mouths "Ginger ale," and she brings him one.

"It's good to see you, kid," she tells him, before the hollers of the men on the other side of the bar take her away again, Travie joining her with the stranger's gun in hand. Pete appears, too, sweaty, the kohl around his eyes smudged, and he puts his head near Travie's for a few moments. Brendon watches them, watches Ashlee join them. She and Pete are so short next to Travie's long body, but they all slot together, Ashlee's small fingers twisting with Travie's long ones in a way that makes Brendon's insides twist up, too, with jealousy.

He's busy watching Ashlee and Travie, their heads bent together, so he doesn't notice Pete slipping behind him to whisper in his ear. "Mikey is amazing," says Pete and Brendon jumps.

"Yeah, he's really interesting." Brendon nods and sips the ginger ale. Ashlee had brought him the golden ginger ale he loves, with the strong ginger flavor that burns the back of his throat.

"Travie tells me you would like to learn the ways of love." Pete waggles his eyebrows at Brendon, and Brendon giggles.

"I got married," Brendon tells him. "My dad -- it's complicated." Pete nods like he understands. He always nods like he understands, even when he thinks Brendon's being ridiculous. "I'm just worried that I'm bad -- you know. That I'm not a good spouse."

"Do you beat her? Or --"

"Him," says Brendon. Pete's eyes go comically wide.

"What about -- the church. Your dad made you join with a man? You mean -- you mean she prefers to be him, right? In private, where your father doesn't know?"

Brendon shakes his head. "No, I mean he's always a him. My dad married me to Ryan Ross, and kicked me out of the church, and..."

Pete asks the question Brendon feels so stupid considering. "Why didn't you just come here?"

Brendon presses his lips together and shakes his head. "I wanted." He stops. He can't -- he just feels so _stupid._ "I just want to try to make it work. I don't want to fail, or be a terrible spouse, or..." He shakes his head again. "I'm awful, Pete, and it always hurts, and I hate it, and his best friend has to bring me --" He sucks in a shaky breath and drinks some of the ginger ale to steady himself, focuses on the dark burn of the ginger in his throat.

"It hurts every time?" Pete frowns. "Is he rough with you? Mean?"

"No, I know this is my fault. He's very -- considerate. We use..." Brendon flushes. "Oil."

"Just using oil isn't enough," snaps Pete. But before Brendon can defend Ryan -- and _why_ does he even want to defend Ryan? -- Pete calms down. "I have something that may help you. It actually was Ashlee's, and she -- well, we have newer, more modern ones. But it's good for practice. And stretching." Pete squeezes Brendon's wrist. "You should try the Coca-Cola now that you're allowed. It's really good. I'll be right back." He waves for Ashlee and then leaves, and she brings Brendon another slim glass of dark soda pop; it makes his mouth feel a little numb.

Then Patrick calls Brendon over to do more dueling pianos, and then Frank drags Brendon onto the dance floor to waltz with him, and then Brendon drinks another Coca-Cola and thinks, _Look at me now, Dad,_ and then doesn't think anymore about how his parents and old room are just a ten minute walk across the city. And before he knows it, the sun is rising outside the club. After he gathers up Frank and Gerard and a suspiciously sweaty and sated-looking Mikey, but before they make it away from hugs and out the door, Pete slips a rucksack over Brendon's shoulder.

"A gift," he whispers in Brendon's ear, and then kisses the side of his head. "Don't be a stranger anymore, baby."

"I'll come at least once a month," Brendon promises. "I don't think I can get away any more than that."

"We'll take what we can get," says Ashlee, and kisses the other side of his head.

Brendon peeks into the bag once they get back to the hotel, but it's just a wooden box with a bronze clasp.

*

When Brendon gets home, he doesn't get a chance to look at Pete's gift for _hours._ They get home right before supper, chattering and excited, and it's not until after they've related every detail of their trip -- Frank gleefully tells the story of Mikey disappearing with Pete and Ashlee and Frank taking over the bar for almost an hour several times.

"I think Alicia would really like Ashlee," Mikey says -- defensively the first time, but by the third telling, Alicia's in the room, sitting on Mikey's lap, and they're both laughing.

When Brendon finally gets up to his room, he's wide awake. Tonight would be a Ryan night, but Ryan's not here -- Ryan's in Texas, with Spencer. Brendon strips and kicks his clothes into the corner. Even though they're not the clothes he wore into the club, they still smell like smoke. His bath is full of cool water, like someone had filled it hours ago, expecting him to want a bath as soon as he got home, and he makes a note to himself to both apologize to and thank Toro.

The cool water feels nice, too; it's barely cooler than his skin, and washes away the grime of travel and the scent of smoke.

It's not until he gets back to his bed and crawls between the sheets that he remembers Pete's mysterious box. When he opens it, he chokes on the air in his throat. It's -- it's a phallus. Long and thick, with a round, flared head, and a wide base. The wood is blond and polished to a shine, and there are no splinters anywhere.

Brendon touches it tentatively, and looks over at the table where the jar of oil is waiting. He should _practice,_ it's practically his duty as Ryan's spouse, he should --

He swallows hard and reaches for the oil.

*

Brendon doesn't stop missing Ryan and Spencer, which is... strange. He's not sure how he feels about his newfound attachment to them. He misses their suppertime rituals, and the way Spencer would explain things about the business to him. But Toro keeps him busy -- some of the horses are foaling, and Toro has Brendon running back and forth from the house to the barn, and Mikey even taps him to sleep right outside a stall one night with a mare who looks pretty cranky. Brendon periodically wakes up to check on her and offer her sugar cubes, which she refuses -- because, Alicia says, her nipples are waxing. Brendon doesn't know what that means, but blushes furiously when Alicia says "nipples" and she laughs, and keeps using the phrase, over and over.

Even though he keeps busy, it's a relief when, a few weeks later, Mikey and Alicia take Jamia and Frank and go into the city to help Ryan and Spencer herd the wild mustangs away from the train and onto Ross land. They'll need to be branded, and kept in the special corral Mikey had some of the hands build on the other side of the land, with an extra-high fence that, Mikey had told him, only the most determined mustangs could leap.

Brendon didn't say anything, but he himself figures that if a mustang leaps over a fence that is actually taller than Brendon, he deserves to be free.

*

When Ryan comes home, he doesn't go with everyone else to see the mustangs -- he goes right up to his room. This had been anticipated; Brendon had helped Jamia fill Ryan's huge copper tub that morning. They hadn't bothered heating the water; it's summertime in the desert. No one wants a hot bath.

Brendon follows, trails right into Ryan's bathing rooms, which face south, so even though it's summertime, they're cool, if a bit stuffy. He's dusty and looks even crankier than usual.

"Can I do anything for you?"

Ryan starts stripping, his movements more economical than usual, especially for him. Coat, vest, cravat...

"You could suck my dick," he says flatly, and drops his pants.

Brendon is frozen in the doorway, watching Ryan get naked and unselfconsciously step into the cool bath and sink down under the water until only his face is showing.

"Go _away,_ Brendon," says Ryan, and slides down even more until all Brendon can see is the wavy impression of Ryan's body under the water, and the reflection of his own comically shocked face.

He goes straight to his own rooms and stares at the box holding the phallus. He wipes it down carefully every night, cleaning it with soap and water before he puts it away. Sex is messy; Brendon has to wonder if Ryan washes after sex every time the way Brendon does, because... it's messy. He can see why his sisters used to giggle about it being "dirty" -- it really is. Kind of. Brendon almost... doesn't mind. Kind of likes it. He feels more present in his body, like he really belongs with his pale chest and gangling limbs and freakishly small toes.

It's smaller than Ryan; Brendon is positive. It looked huge the first time he looked at it, but now it seems... almost normal, the kind of thing most people would have. Maybe secretly. It's barely as big as Brendon's own... cock.

He still blushes when he thinks that word, can't stop himself.

The box is easy to open, a simple latch, with room for a lock, but Brendon doesn't have one. He pulls the phallus out and opens his mouth, measuring. It goes in with room to spare, but hits his teeth and knocks against the top of his mouth and isn't very comfortable. But it's made of wood, and Brendon's own is more flexible, spongier, maybe... less uncomfortable in someone's mouth.

His breath catches in his throat and he puts the phallus away quickly, tucking the box between the bedside table and the bed. Then he drinks the whole glass of water sitting next to the bed, refills it from the pitcher, and drinks it again.

It's not that he wants to with _Ryan,_ so much. But he _wants to._

*

Lyn takes a tray to Ryan for dinner, and then another for breakfast in the morning. When Mr. Ross starts yelling in the foyer for him later in the day, Toro leaves his lunch to speak to him in low tones about the mustangs. Brendon does not bother to strain to hear the conversation; Mr. Ross makes him nervous, and it's a relief that Brendon never has to talk to him or see him or _anything._ He gets the feeling that Mr. Ross avoids him, too, although he isn't sure why; he's certainly no one to be afraid of, especially with no family or money of his own.

"Come on," says Spencer, tugging his shirt. "We're finally home, we're going to celebrate."

Brendon glances uneasily at Ryan, but Ryan isn't even paying attention; Ryan is sitting on a pinto -- but not Hobo, who gave birth to a spindly-legged filly a week ago -- slumped in the saddle, going through the picnic basket Bob just handed up, quizzing Bob about paper-wrapped packages.

"I've never really ridden a horse except around the corral." Brendon bites his lip. "And --"

"If you keep making excuses, I'll think you won't want to spend time with us." Spencer tosses his hair out of his face and grins at Brendon. "Come on, I promise we're not going too far. We'll be back in time for you to help cook supper."

Brendon can't help but smile back at Spencer. He's clean-shaven again, and he's cut his hair short. It's blonder, too, and glitters in the sun. And his arms are more tan.

Ryan, under his giant hat, is still as pale as Brendon.

Brendon lets Spencer help him up onto his favorite palomino, who Brendon's dubbed Penny, since the name on her breed papers is Pennilanicious. Silly, but Mikey and Alicia have weird senses of humor. He's far from comfortable in the saddle, but Spencer was truthful when he said they weren't going far -- they ride quietly for about a half-hour, away from the estate and town.

"This is my land," Spencer tells him. "The river we use to irrigate on Ryan's -- your -- estate flows down here, and stops..." He pulls his horse up and Penny stops, too, even though Brendon doesn't tug on her reins. Ryan's already far ahead of them, climbing down, untying the picnic basket. The sun glitters over blue blue blue water, and if Brendon squints, it looks like the water touches the sky and they're the same color.

It's amazing.

"I thought you'd like it," says Spencer, sounding pretty satisfied. He clicks his tongue and his horse trots down the trail toward Ryan. Brendon lets Penny follow at a more sedate pace, so by the time he gets there and climbs down -- a little stiffly -- Spencer's already laid out a couple of blankets.

He takes the reins from Brendon and ties their horses near fresh grass and a trickle of the river. Brendon knows the horses aren't supposed to eat grass when they have bits in their mouths, but he figures maybe this isn't a big deal, since they don't usually do it. But then Spencer starts slipping off their saddles, putting them on separate blankets, and swaps out all the bridles for halters. He wipes down the horses, and covers them with white sheets, and make sure they're all clipped to leads that are wrapped around the small tree.

When he looks away from Spencer, he realizes that Ryan has unpacked the entire picnic basket and is already building a sandwich. But if Ryan isn't going to mention Brendon's almost inappropriate interest in everything Spencer does, Brendon certainly won't.

"Can I have the cheese?" he requests, kicking off his moccasins, sitting down, and crossing his legs. The sun is so hot and beats down hard on him, but the bread is soft and the cheese is hard and the pickled cucumbers Brendon layers on are wet, juicy, and full of garlic and pepper. Spencer makes a sandwich like Ryan's, full of mustard and meats and cheese and even the pieces of a hardboiled egg.

Brendon takes an egg, too, and salts it, and alternates bites with sips of cool, gingery lemonade. Bob insists adding ginger means that even when it's cold and Brendon is hot, he can drink as much as he wants without his stomach cramping. Since none of the field hands or cowboys ever have a problem, Brendon figures Bob must be as right about that as he is everything else.

Spencer tells Brendon all about their trip -- about the terrible train ride into California and then down the coast to Texas and Mexico, how they had to stay over one night in California at a terrible hotel and Ryan refused to sleep in the bed because he thought there were lice.

"I could have been right!" Ryan interrupts loudly, and Spencer pinches his leg and keeps going, but never gets annoyed when Ryan inserts his own commentary.

Brendon finds himself feeling oddly affectionate toward Ryan, almost like how he feels toward his older brothers -- or felt, anyway, growing up with them so much older and strange. Or how he feels about Pete and Patrick, except without the years of friendship and trust. Ryan is strange and entertaining, and Brendon kind of likes him -- or would, he guesses, if Ryan ever said more than a few words directed to him at a time. He even almost missed Ryan while he was gone.

Spencer talks through the sandwiches and then through eating Bob's signature tiny, custard-filled cakes, piled high with sugary frosting, telling Brendon about how Texas is even more dry than Nevada, but beautiful, and the horses he picked out are all powerful and strong and will be a good mix with the Rosses' prized Arabians, breeding fast, sure-footed foals, comfortable in the desert, and easy to ride.

When Brendon's finished, he lies down on the blanket, covers his eyes with his forearm, and promptly falls asleep to the sound of Spencer and Ryan bickering over what to name the almost pure black mustang. Ryan is arguing for Mestengo, while Spencer -- specifically, Brendon thinks, to poke at Ryan -- thinks he should be named Jack. The last thing Brendon remembers is Ryan saying, in his deep, funny voice, "Just because horses are pedestrians doesn't mean their names should be, Spence!"

Brendon wakes up slowly. It feels like he's only been asleep for a moment, but the sun is off his face. He opens his eyes to see he's covered with the same white muslin sheets that Spencer used on the horses, to keep the sun from burning them. When he yawns, the muslin falls into his mouth.

He sits up slowly, stretching, and reaches for the covered pail of ginger lemonade. He drinks a scoop and then looks around for Ryan and Spencer. They're down by the water, and everywhere Brendon looks he sees pale skin glowing in the sunlight. Spencer's strong laugh rings in his ears, and then Spencer is on the blanket, standing naked over Brendon, blocking out the sun, shaking water from his hair down onto Brendon's face.

Water drips from his hair and streams down his chest and legs, and Brendon suddenly can't breathe. He can't breathe at all.

Spencer is talking. ". . . at the water, okay? You have to come in -- it's freezing!" says Spencer, and then he bounds away, and Brendon is left on the blanket, trembling -- trembling and hard.

He takes his time taking off his clothes, thinking of everything he can to make himself not aroused anymore. He thinks of the way the milk smelled when Frank forgot it outside the kitchen for several days. He thinks of Mr. Ross's frown, and the way he smells when he stumbles home in the morning while Bob is rolling out tortillas for breakfast and lunch. He thinks of what he'll do if he sees his parents on the streets of the city the next time he goes to Decadence.

"Come on!" yells Ryan impatiently, and Brendon is so surprised that he smiles a real smile at Ryan when he gets down to the water. It's deliciously icy cold, and it's a relief, because Brendon can pretend that the chill is why he's having trouble speaking.

*

Every time Brendon thinks the word _phallus,_ he blushes. And it's so _hard;_ even though it's been a couple of weeks, and he's been using it every day, using it enough that the green oil has already seeped into the grain of the blond wood, he has to come first, be relaxed, rub a lot of oil into his hole and around it, use three fingers and twist them around until his breath catches in his chest and he can't hold himself off the bed any longer. If he turns, lies on his back and props his legs on the headboard, holds one leg under the knee out to the side, it's easier to slide it in.

And it's easier each time. The first stretch, when it feels impossibly huge; the pop when he grits his teeth and pushes; the slow glide into his body. It's hard to grip the wide base with his oily hand. He almost always loses his grip at least once, letting the toy go too deep or bang around his insides, stretching, always stretching, wider and wider. The drag as he pulls it out, drips more oil on it, the gasp of pushing back in.

He tries it sitting up, balancing the flat base on the bed and lowering himself onto it. It feels too good, like a burning pleasure, and he pushes his cheek against the headboard, his oily fingers scrabbling for purchase somewhere, anywhere, trying to find something to hold himself down and keep himself from flying away.

Tonight he doesn't touch himself first, though. He's too frantic from earlier, seeing Spencer's body in the water, watching him lie in the sun next to Ryan. There's nothing that makes Spencer more attractive than Ryan -- they're both well put together, with long, lean limbs, and pretty faces, wide mouths and big eyes. But whatever it is about Spencer, about his hips and the curve of his back... Brendon doesn't know, can't think about it.

This isn't just a toy; he's cheating on his spouse in his heart by thinking about Spencer right now. He almost doesn't care -- he's always so careful to keep his mind blank, to only think about a faceless person doing these things to him, or letting him do them... he's been so careful that he hadn't even realized what he'd been feeling, but it's all for nothing now.

He oils his fingers and runs them over the phallus. He can barely see it; there's only a sliver of a moon outside, almost no light shining through the water closet doorway. He drips the oil down and runs his hand over it the way he runs his hand over his own penis. He wonders if Spencer would be as large and thick as the toy when he's hard; Brendon is almost as big, but Ryan is bigger, huge even when soft. He wonders if it will hurt less with Ryan now that he's started using the toy, if Ryan will even notice.

The wood is so smooth -- smoother than skin. And cold. It never really heats up. Brendon doesn't care. He positions it at the top of the bed and leans up, over it, letting it rub against him as he fingers himself open. He twists his finger roughly, and winces a little, but adds more oil and another finger anyway. The extra oil runs down the wooden toy, pools on the stained sheets. And as Brendon adds a third finger, his hard penis bobs and rubs against the wood of his headboard and he can't breathe. He holds himself up with his clean hand, and keeps himself open for the toy with the other, rubbing his rim, rubbing around where his body is swallowing the flared head of the toy.

As he slides down it, he moans. He can't help it. He can usually keep it in. Not tonight, not now, not thinking about Spencer under him, Spencer being the one to touch him, Spencer's hand around his -- around his _cock,_ jerking him with slick fingers, hard inside him, splitting him in half, breaking him open, his thighs burning as he moves on top, toes digging into the sheets.

Brendon comes shouting ahh-ahh-ahh, banging his head against the headboard, sore inside and out. He can't breathe, he can't move, he just falls to the side, the toy still inside him, slowly working its way out as Brendon's body clenches and releases around it.

There's fluid and oil on the headboard when he looks, but he can't move to clean it up right now. He closes his eyes and feels his sweat drip off his skin, run into his hair. He's so hot that when a breeze picks up outside and blows through the washroom windows into his room, he shivers even though it's warm, and then shivers again when the toy slides all the way out and his body closes like it had never been there, raw and aching still.

*

"I love the green oil," Jamia confides to him while he's scrubbing his sheets. "It smells so good, and it never gets tacky like the sandalwood. I mean, I like the sandalwood, too, but I hate how sticky it gets after a while."

Brendon wonders when he's going to stop blushing every time someone says something intimate.

"I didn't realize women used oil, too," he finally says, feeling awkward. When he glances up, though, she's still scrubbing, looking down at Ryan's paisley sheets. The yellow oil Ryan uses doesn't show up on the sheets -- the nutty one; they've never tried the sandalwood -- doesn't change their color the way the green stains Brendon's old white muslin sheets. He feels a little better, because she's not looking at him or making fun of him.

"Of course," she says lightly. "How else would we --" Jamia breaks off, like maybe she hadn't expected Brendon to keep the conversation going and she wasn't sure how to say what she meant because she hadn't been expecting to have to say it.

He blushes more fiercely, thinking about Jamia on top of Frank, or using a toy like Brendon's with Frank face-down, and scrubs his sheets with renewed vigor. It doesn't matter. The green oil never comes out.

Later, when he brings his crisp, dried sheets to his room to make up his bed, he notices the pot of oil has been refilled, and there's a stack of pretty green towels, almost the exact color of the oil, between his bed and the table, on top of the carved wooden box that holds the toy.

*

Brendon can't help it; he shivers when Ryan traces his hole with the oil. His body, so used to the hardness of the phallus now, just _opens_ when Ryan pushes against it. His body wants it, and even though it still hurts when Ryan shoves in, Brendon feels the threads of pleasure spiking all the way through his blood and skin and bones. But Ryan never finds that little place inside where a touch can make Brendon shake; he just pushes past it, stutters his hips. Brendon's body is waiting, waiting, waiting, and when Ryan is finished and pulls out, Brendon is still hard -- for the first time.

"Just, you know," Ryan tells him on a yawn, and makes a motion with his hand that simulates masturbation as he goes to the water closet. Ryan's not even soft yet, not even... he doesn't look _satisfied._ And that's okay, Brendon thinks nastily, because Brendon's _never_ satisfied. So it's only fair.

Brendon doesn't bother to masturbate -- it feels wrong to do it in front of Ryan, to let Ryan see that part of himself when Ryan clearly doesn't care, doesn't want to. But when he slips back to his room -- not through the kitchens, but the back way, the long way, so no one can see the hard, uncomfortable line of his cock through his trousers -- he pulls out the phallus.

He _can't,_ though, just can't, no matter how empty he feels, no matter how unsatisfied. Just touching the phallus feels like cheating. He and Ryan hadn't vowed fidelity, but they have also never discussed non-monogamy or plural marriage or open marriage or anything. Brendon still can't even get used to touching himself whenever he wants without feeling guilty about it, and this is so much more than just touching himself.

The sliver of moon is bright through the washroom windows. Brendon rubs his cock, standing over the toilet, braced on the wall, thinking of that one moment when anything could happen, when Ryan's fingers could be _anyone's_ fingers sliding across his skin, slicked with oil, catching on tiny folds, rubbing the rim --

After, he washes up, scrubbing his skin hard, until it's pink in the pale silver light.

*

Sometimes, sitting at the work table in the kitchen, he thinks about how to ask about what he doesn't know -- but then he remembers the awkward conversation with Jamia about the oil, and reapplies himself to rolling butter into dough for croissants, or learning how to bone raw chicken. He still can't bring himself to eat meat, but he likes being useful, likes knowing that the chicken he cuts up will feed the hands who work the fields, will feed Mikey and Alicia and Gerard and Lyn and Jamia and Frank and Toro and Bob.

He likes to keep busy, but keeping his hands busy means his mind has time to wander, to think about what it would be like to suck on a cock, to have someone else in bed giving him pleasure. Everyone who works at the house is so happy -- they like what they do, and they are, Gerard tells him one day, saving up to buy their own parcel of land.

"Some place with rain," he says dreamily. "A lot of rain."

Brendon can't imagine what kind of place would have a lot of rain, but he knows places like that exist, since he's read about them. England has a lot of rain -- but no Equality Laws. Gerard couldn't wear dresses.

"There are places in the United States that have a lot of rain, Brendon." Gerard pats his hand. "Don't you dream about anything?"

Brendon's teeth nearly go through his lip at that. Yes, he dreams. He dreams about playing music all day and never having to have sex with Ryan again; he dreams about Spencer falling in love with him and about his parents apologizing. He dreams about spending his nights with Pete and Ashlee and Travie and Patrick in a raucous club, instead of alone in a quiet room.

"Of course," he finally says to Gerard, "but not about rain."

*

Mikey and Alicia and their hands are taming the mustangs -- Alicia says they never use the word "break" because they want the mustangs to still feel free and powerful. They just don't want them to try to trample humans or the mares. So Brendon asks Frank if he can drive the carriage.

"Of course," Frank says, looking confused. "I'm the one who brought you here, remember?"

But Brendon doesn't remember -- the whole day is a fog of unhappiness and confusion and waking up on the floor, tangled in heavy blankets.

"No," he confesses. "Sorry.

"That's okay." Frank snags one of the cookies Brendon is carefully frosting. "So where do you want to go?"

"Into the city -- to Decadence. I promised --"

"I'm in," Frank says immediately. "Jamia can come, too, right?" But he's off and running before Brendon can answer.

That afternoon, when Brendon gets ready to leave, he carefully outlines his eyes with the kohl pencil Jamia had given him last time, and dabs on a bit of her mineral powder. He looks... silly. But not awful. He wears his church clothes, the unrelieved black making the kohl and glittering mineral powder stand out even more, because he still hasn't bought anything new, and he doesn't want to wear the blue shirts Spencer gave him.

Spencer. He hadn't come that morning; there'd been a problem in the fields and he'd gone straight there. Ryan hadn't come out of his rooms all day, either.

Brendon rubs his chest hard over his heart, and goes downstairs. Jamia and Frank are in matching black suits with teal vests, and he feels underdressed, especially when Jamia twirls a walking stick. But she says, "Looking sharp, B!" and grins at him, and he remembers the kohl and mineral powder and feels a little better.

In the rucksack Pete had given him, he's tucked his bankbook and some money from last time and a book to read. And some clothes, a change of underwear; he figures they'll stay over one night again, and come back tomorrow afternoon. He just keeps feeling like he should tell someone -- Ryan or Spencer or... someone.

Frank and Jamia dance out the door, but before Brendon leaves, he pulls Toro to the side. "Tell Ryan and Spencer I'll see them tomorrow?" he requests, and Toro nods, frowning.

*

The moment before Brendon walks into Decadence, his stomach drops -- what if they don't care about seeing him anymore. But then he pushes through the doors, and there's Ashlee, pulling him into a hug, and Patrick hollering at him across the room, and Travie bringing a glass of Coca-Cola to his piano almost before he's even sat down.

He plays all night and no one asks him any embarrassing questions about the phallus or Ryan, and when the sun starts to rise, it's kisses all around before Brendon, Frank, and Jamia go to the hotel to collapse onto the beds with fancy sheets.

*

Ryan doesn't even acknowledge that Brendon was gone, but Spencer asks at supper, "Where were you last night?"

"I went into the city --" replies Brendon, and then Ryan interrupts.

"To see your family?" he asks acidly. Then he takes a giant bite of fried chicken, almost too big for his mouth.

"No, to see some old friends," Brendon says lightly. "They run a popular club where I play piano sometimes."

There's a choking noise from Ryan, and when Brendon and Spencer both look over, he's draining his glass of water.

Spencer turns back to Brendon. "I can't imagine you playing a piano in a nightclub," he says, smiling. "But --"

"I used to go every night." Brendon's plate is full of succotash and corn salad, and he chases small kernels of corn with the tines of his fork. "When my father --" He breaks off on purpose, smiles, shakes his head. He's had time to plan this confession. "Well, it didn't go over well, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"I didn't know you were such a rebel." Spencer's eyes twinkle over the top of his glass as he sips ginger lemonade.

It's easy to confess to Spencer's warm eyes, and drop the information Brendon wants to make known. "I never thought of myself as such -- I just wanted to play the piano and sing cowboy songs." Brendon breaks off eye contact and smiles down at his plate at the memory of himself at seventeen, striding into Decadence -- he'd picked it only because of the name, and because it was a kick in the stomach of his father's beliefs -- and asking if they'd let him play piano, teach him popular songs. "However, now that I'm settled here, I'll probably go back every few weeks, maybe once a month."

Ryan ignores him in favor of another huge bite of chicken, but Spencer is still smiling, so Brendon takes it as approval and stabs a kernel of corn, the relief emptying out his stomach and making it easier for him to eat. It wasn't that he'd've _stopped_ going if Spencer or Ryan had been irritated, but... it's better that they know and don't care, aren't upset by it.

Brendon just doesn't want Ryan to think of him the same way he thinks of his father, who spends almost every night in the city at a club or saloon.

"So tell me what I missed yesterday," Brendon requests. "Did Mikey and Alicia make any headway with the mustangs?"

*

August is a terrible month; there's a drought, and one of the hands kills himself falling on a pitchfork and not telling anyone until it's too late to stop the blood poisoning, and Ryan's father gets sick and stays home for more than a week. After two days, they catch him trying to saddle a horse to ride off, and he collapses. Bob and Toro and Mikey drag him back into the house and force-feed him liquids, ginger lemonade and water, patch him up where it's clear he fell down a couple of stairs. The next day his fever spikes, and he yells at Ryan in the middle of the day, in front of everyone.

Brendon doesn't think he's ever even _seen_ Mr. Ross in the middle of the day.

The things he says to Ryan are _awful._ Brendon can't even... he calls Ryan a slut, and says he should have sent him to a bawdy house to live with the loose women, and that is when Brendon runs to get Toro, who's out in the barn with Mikey.

"Mr. Ross! Ryan!" Brendon says around gasps for air, and Toro takes off for the house. Brendon realizes then that he's barefoot in the barn, but Alicia doesn't yell at him, just takes his arm and walks him back outside, gives him a cup of water and checks his feet for scratches and punctures before sending him back to the house.

When he gets back, Toro is speaking softly to Mr. Ross, and Ryan's cheeks are blazing red. "And I _hate you,"_ Ryan yells at him. "I hate what you do and who you are! I hate everything about you and your money and your gambling and the way you've ruined my --" He cuts off when Spencer touches his arm and runs out of the room, pushing past Brendon to get out the door and to the stairs.

Brendon isn't sure if he's supposed to go after Ryan or not, so he doesn't -- he stays in the study as Toro helps Mr. Ross sit on the couch, and asks Spencer if he thinks his mother would come out to look at Mr. Ross's fever.

"I don't have a fever," says Mr. Ross grouchily, like he and his only son hadn't just had a terrible fight.

They ignore him and send for Spencer's mother, but she sends her assistant instead of coming herself, and Brendon is stupidly disappointed that he doesn't get to meet her. Greta flirts with Spencer while she checks over Mr. Ross, checks under the bandage at the scrape on his forehead; Spencer doesn't flirt back, doesn't even smile at her the way he smiles at Brendon.

Brendon feels sick to his stomach when he realizes he's cataloguing Spencer's reactions to him, comparing them to the way he acts with Greta... so satisfied that Spencer seems to like him more than he likes her. No one notices when Brendon slips away. He decides to knock on Ryan's door -- but it's locked.

It stays locked for four days. Brendon doesn't think Ryan even opens it to eat, because the trays are all returned to the kitchen full. Spencer tells him Ryan has food hidden in his room, fruits and dried meats. "An old habit from when his father was even worse," explains Spencer, and no one in the room looks at all surprised.

"I restocked him with apples and rabbit jerky last week," says Lyn, but no one looks reassured.

The third night Ryan is locked in his room, Mr. Ross's fever breaks, and the fourth night, late, after supper, he sweeps down the stairs in all black, with a white stand-up collar. Brendon hears him order Toro to have Mikey bring around the red brougham and drive him into the city. Mikey does it, Frank on the box next to him, Mr. Ross shut up, barely visible through the glass windows. Once they're out of sight, though, Toro doesn't shut down the electric light, and Brendon watches through the front windows as Jamia flies across the property toward Spencer's house on the back of a strawberry roan.

Brendon climbs the stairs and knocks on Ryan's door. "Your father's gone," he says loudly. "Please come out." But the door stays shut for a few minutes, until after Brendon's slipped back down into the kitchen with a disappointed look on his face. Bob gives him lard and flour and saleratus and Brendon starts a batch of biscuits, even though it's almost midnight.

When Ryan comes down the stairs, his skin is too pale, and stretched too tightly over skin and bone. Gerard clucks over him, bringing out his favorite foods to the study, and sitting with him, tucked next to him in the huge armchair, while he eats tiny bites of eggs and the buttermilk biscuits Brendon had made and sausage gravy and crisp bacon. Ryan looks sicker with every swallow, but he keeps it all down, Gerard's voice a low hum in the background every time Brendon checks in on him.

It's easy to forget that the servants were Ryan's friends first, that Ryan probably hired them, that Ryan and Spencer were surely the ones who told them that the Equality Laws are vigorously enforced on Ross land. It's easy to forget, when they're all sitting with Brendon in the kitchen, and Ryan barely makes an appearance, that they all have a deep affection for Ryan, that there's something in him that commands intense loyalty from people.

Brendon lingers in the kitchen, his clothes from the day sweaty and covered in flour from a mishap with Lyn while he was feverishly making the biscuits.

"You can go out there," Bob says to him finally, sounding completely exasperated. "I'm sure he'd be happy to see you."

Brendon glares at him and sits closer to the heat of the cookfire, letting it burn the sweat off his face.

When Ryan came out of his room, Frank raced off; an hour later, Spencer shows up. He'd taken supper with Brendon in the kitchen, worry about Ryan all over his face, and gone home as usual. When he comes striding into the kitchen, he's wearing pajamas -- loose white linen pants and sleeveless shirt with a deep V-neck, different sized stripes in black and brown making him look even taller -- and moccasins. Brendon's never seen him in anything but suits and boots... and naked. He blushes furiously, but Spencer doesn't even notice him sitting in the corner.

Bob sends him into the study, and Brendon lets his head thunk against the stone wall a couple of times before he follows. But Bob grabs his arm and pushes a damp rag into it. "Wash up first," he advises.

The rag doesn't do much, so Brendon goes up to his room, where he has big towels and a bucket of water. He doesn't bother with a bath, just scrubs off, washes his hair with the rest of the water from the bucket, and tosses all the dirty water out his window. He puts on one of the blue shirts Spencer bought him, and his least-shabby pair of trousers, and goes back downstairs, to the main house. Bob gives him a tray of small pies and a pot of chocolate to bring into the study. Three cups.

He doesn't knock, just nudges the door open with the edge of the tray. That is a mistake. Ryan and Spencer are curled on the chair together, and Gerard is nowhere to be found. Ryan is crying into Spencer's neck, his sobs hoarse and deep, wracking his whole body.

Ryan's speaking, but the sobs distort his voice enough that it takes Brendon a moment to understand what he's saying. "I hate him, I hate him," over and over.

They don't see him, so he just eases away from the door, leaving the tray on the floor outside. He takes the third cup and saucer with him.

*

Ryan's birthday is a Ryan night. Spencer comes over. Brendon helps Bob make a really nice cake, with three layers. It's a coconut cake; Brendon's never had coconut before, and isn't sure he likes it, but it's not bad, and the way Ryan's eyes light up when he sees the white and pink concoction come into the dining room... Brendon doesn't mind eating it, even though it has the texture of muslin and is so sweet it makes his teeth ache.

Mr. Ross comes in while they're eating the cake. He's already drunk; Brendon's learned to tell. He never touches Ryan -- _Anymore,_ hisses Gerard sometimes -- but Ryan always looks smaller when his father is in the room, even though they're almost the same size, especially now, after Mr. Ross's illness.

Brendon tries to think of reasons why a man would drink as much as Mr. Ross does. He was in the Army, Brendon knows. Sometimes he thinks about the small things Toro has said about being in the Army, about the way the Army was sometimes just as bad as raiders and rapists and maybe Mr. Ross had even worse memories than Toro did. Maybe Mr. Ross hadn't gotten shot and discharged before he could suffocate under the weight of the awful things he and his compatriots had to do.

He hates those thoughts, and doesn't think anything can justify hurting Ryan, anyway. Brendon doesn't love Ryan and knows they don't have the right kind of marriage -- and doesn't even think the marriage will grow into the kind Brendon would want, if he wanted one... but no one should hurt him. He's not a bad guy. Sometimes he's even fun, like when he writes stories about the moon and the sun falling in love and lets Brendon play the piano while he reads them.

Ryan doesn't smile again after his father slurs, "Happy birthday, son," and leaves. He wasn't mean, or violent. He'd even brought Ryan a tissue-wrapped gift and a small card. But the smell of tequila hangs in the air after he leaves, the wheels of the phaeton creaking loudly as he drives away, and everyone is on edge.

Later, after Spencer's left, when Brendon goes to Ryan's room, Ryan looks up from his desk, where he's sitting, staring at the tissue-wrapped gift. It looks like it's probably a book, but Ryan hasn't opened it. No -- he's staring at the card. Brendon wonders what it says, but can't see it from the doorway. He stays there, in the doorway, feeling awkward and stupid. Ryan's nineteen, and Brendon didn't get him anything, had just embroidered a stupid handkerchief with a lot of help from Frank and Gerard. A moon in silver in one corner, and a sun in gold catty-corner.

"I made you this. For your birthday." Brendon holds out the handkerchief. Bob had helped him carefully wrap it, like a sandwich or a cookie, in shiny green paper Spencer had brought from his parents' store.

Ryan sighs and presses his fingers to his eyes, then looks over at Brendon. He looks the same as always, hair perfectly tousled, ridiculously-colored clothes bright in the electric light, but his voice... he sounds so tired, so sad.

"Can we not tonight?" he asks. "Please?"

"O-of course." Brendon walks a little bit into the room to leave the handkerchief on Ryan's dresser. It's covered in candles and candle wax, and jars stuck into the candle wax. The wax drippings hang off the edges, and there's some on the floor, too. Brendon leaves the package carefully balanced on top of an empty pink glass jar, and steps away.

He pauses at the door. Ryan is back to staring at the gift from his father. "Happy birthday," he says softly, and he shuts the door when he leaves.

*

Spencer's birthday, several days later, is another Ryan night, marked off on Brendon's mental calendar. They've been invited to Spencer's house by his parents. Gerard tells Brendon, while Brendon mushes butter and lard into flour and salt, that Ryan used to go over to Spencer's all the time, at least as much as Spencer came to the Ross estate. And then Mr. Ross hired Spencer -- or Ryan did, no one's sure. Mr. Ross had said, "If you're man enough to face me down you're man enough to run my property," and --

"Wait," says Brendon. "How old is Spencer?" He'd figured Spencer was at least twenty-one or twenty-two -- he's been managing the Ross business for almost four years.

"Turning eighteen!" Gerard slaps a palm on the table. "Gonna vote in the next election, keep everyone free."

"Gotta get 'em young," says Bob gravely, but his eyes twinkle. In one hand, he has a little pot of cold water, and in the other an egg. Brendon considers for a moment.

"Can I make chocolate custard?" he asks. The tiny pastries filled with Bob's special chocolate custard are Spencer's favorites, and a whole pie filled with it would be divine.

"For Spencer's eighteenth birthday? Of course," replies Bob, so Brendon picks the egg and kneads it in until it makes pie crust that he can knuckle into the tin pan, cover with a cheesecloth bag full of beans, and bake until it's golden brown and crisp enough to hold up the custard.

He can't believe Spencer's only eighteen. He seems so...

"Self-possessed?" suggests Gerard. "Mature?"

"Yes," says Brendon, hissing the S, trailing off. "But something else, too."

Bob sits down with a bowl full of eggs and water and begins washing the chicken shit off the eggs. "Pretty," he says, and grins wickedly at Brendon. "Interesting. Enticing."

"Smart," snaps Brendon. As Bob cleans the eggs, Brendon takes them and cracks them, putting the whites in one bowl for a meringue or glossy frosting, and the yolks in another for the chocolate custard.

Bob just grins again.

*

Spencer's house is small, like the house Brendon grew up in -- modest, his mother used to call it. "We're a modest people and need no more than a modest house," she'd say.

But that's where the resemblance ends. Spencer's family is warm and cheerful and happy, and they tease each other and shout across the room and laugh. Their curtains are colorful calico, and their furniture is nicked and worn. Brendon loves it. And he loves Spencer's parents, who are, as Brendon suspected, even more progressive than Spencer. They don't even use words like "him" or "her" -- only "per" and "person," which Brendon kind of likes, but thinks it must be tough to get used to.

Brendon tastes his first piece of chicken, Spencer at one elbow and one of Spencer's younger sisters at the other. They have a round table -- no one sits at the head or the foot. Everyone equal. The chicken is okay; it's nothing like what he was expecting, but it's not the worst thing ever. He can't stop thinking that the chicken died so he could taste it, though, and that, more than anything else, makes him uncomfortable.

"Spencer rebelled!" says Spencer's father -- "Call me Jeff," he'd told Brendon, but Brendon can't quite do that, even in his head. "We wanted per to be a doctor. Or run the store. Or meet some nice people and raise children. But no, Spencer had to be a businessperson."

But when he says that, he winks at Spencer and then at Brendon, and then booms out laughing.

He's not wearing a dress, but Brendon bets he has at least one.

Spencer's mother wears trousers, loose like Brendon's, cropped to just below her knees; he blushes every time he sees her legs glinting with the same golden hair that's on Spencer's head. He doesn't think he's ever seen a woman's bare legs outside of Decadence. She has a small bird tattooed on her shoulder, too, in dull blue ink. It keeps catching Brendon's eye. She keeps an arm around Ryan's shoulders almost all night, and Brendon hears her murmuring in his ear, making him smile, loose and carefree like how Brendon's only ever seen him smile for Spencer and horses.

*

"Just... Not tonight, okay, Brendon?" Ryan kicks off his boots, the ones tipped in metal at the toes, modern. "Can we just go one week without --"

Brendon rolls the words around in his mouth before he says them. He's been thinking about this for a while, wondering... "Do you... want to do it the other way?"

Maybe Ryan thinks the light is low enough or that he's turned far away enough that Brendon won't see the way his face twists in disgust. Brendon leans harder against the doorframe so that he doesn't fall down.

"Ryan," he breathes. "Why didn't you _say something?"_

"You like it." Ryan doesn't turn around, doesn't look at Brendon, just keeps slowly peeling off his socks. "Right? You like it. And I have to do what you want, otherwise --"

"I don't like it," snaps Brendon. He ignores the other sentence and bangs his hand into the door.

" _Liar."_ Ryan lifts up his head. His eyes are furious. "You like it. You -- you use all that oil yourself, you have that toy, I've _seen it."_

Brendon's stomach drops -- Ryan's been into his room? Through his things? Or did someone else mention to him -- it's hard to get a breath in. When he does, he shoots back, "It's no fun with you, though." He doesn't want to hurt Ryan's feelings, but this is _just awful._ "You hate it, it's so obvious you don't want to touch me, all these months -- it _hurts every time."_

Brendon doesn't wait for Ryan to say something, just whirls around and stomps down the hall. He doesn't even care that his feet are loud on the floor, that it hurts when his bare feet slap the wood of the upper floors. He runs through the house, through the kitchen, ignoring Toro's surprised, "Brendon?" -- then up the stairs to his room. The adobe brick is harder than the wood, but it doesn't hurt his feet as much when they slam down onto it as he runs.

For the first time, he locks the door to his room, slide the bolt across. He plasters himself against it, drawing in great gusts of air, staring at his green-stained bed sheets.

What does it mean, that Ryan hated it this whole time but did it anyway? _I have to do what you want._ What does that make Brendon?

*

Brendon wakes up every morning when the sun rises, even though there are no windows in his room. Sometimes he keeps the door to the bath tub room open, and the sun shines through those windows and spreads up his bed as the morning goes on, but sometimes he doesn't. He just isn't a sleeper. His mom used to say that. "Our Brendon just isn't a sleeper." Her voice was always fond, even though sometimes, if he woke up early and wasn't careful enough, he'd wake her up.

He misses her, misses her with an ache in his heart and a cramp in his head. He hasn't seen her in six months, since the day after his eighteenth birthday when his father sent him away to marry a man who didn't, doesn't, want him.

She hasn't seen him, either. Hasn't sent a letter or come to visit. Hasn't even sent a message through his brothers and sisters. And they haven't come either, or sent letters, not one. Because he left the fold -- was kicked out, but he'd left in his heart long before he married a man to live in secular sin. Unspectacular secular sin.

_I have to do what you want._

Brendon stays in bed thinking about this until long after the sun has risen. He hears someone at his door, jiggling the handle; later, someone knocks, but Brendon doesn't answer until he's sure whoever it is has gone away. There's a tray on the floor -- chocolate, coffee, cream, scones with nuts and dried fruit. They had to have heard him screaming at Ryan; if they didn't hear, they could infer something terrible happened by the way Brendon had run through the house, gone through the kitchen without even acknowledging any of them.

The scone is still warm, like Bob hadn't planned to make them that morning but mixed up the dough when they realized Brendon wasn't going to leave his room.

He takes the tray, but locks his door again.

_I have to do what you want._

He sits at his desk with a cup -- half coffee, half chocolate, a drop of cream; his usual. He pulls out the stationary that's been waiting for him, that he hasn't touched since arriving, and fingers the pens. He picks a nice one, with a perfect nib -- but not one that he's ever used to write music -- and begins to write. Dear Mother, Why did you let this happen? Dear Father, How could you and what have you done? Dear Pete and Patrick, All I wanted was to feel alive and you helped me with that so much. Dear Ryan, I am so sorry, I had no idea. Dear Spencer, Please --

They all burn in the candles' flames.

He does not go down for lunch. There's a note on his tray, alongside his cheese sandwich and bean soup.

_At Spencer's. --RR._

*

Ryan and Spencer stay away from the house for several days. Brendon has to do something -- has to move, has to take his mind off what he's been turning over in his head. So he goes to Mikey and Alicia and asks to be taught about the horses.

"Are you abandoning Bob's kitchen already?" Alicia is forking hay down from the hayloft into a pile on the floor. "Cooking getting boring?"

"No, nothing like that. I just need -- I need to _move,"_ Brendon tells her, twisting his fingers in the hem of his shirt. His old shirts are wearing out and he's going to need new ones soon. Maybe next time he goes into the city... He doesn't have his mother to make them anymore, from the patterns and cloth Brendon used to bring home from the store. He'll have to find a tailor, or buy ready-made clothes.

Maybe he'll find a pair of tight pants like Spencer and Ryan's, one of those trim vests with all the buttons, and a pair of riding boots. And a pair of the trim boots Spencer and Ryan both have, with buttons up the sides. He's only ever had plain lace-up shoes, one pair for every day and one pair for holidays and special occasions. He only wears them when he's going off Ross land now, though, and sticks to hand-me-down moccasins for everyday.

"I can understand that." Alicia leans on her pitchfork. He can't see her face in the shadows of the hayloft, but he squints up at her anyway. "Okay, pipsqueak, I'll teach you to muck out stalls."

It's hard work, and it smells, but it's just as satisfying as Brendon was hoping it would be. The itch of sweat between his shoulder blades and the smell of manure that clings to him even after his bath is less satisfying, but he doesn't mind it. When he falls into bed that night, it's with aching muscles, and he sleeps soundly.

*

"I need to talk to you." Brendon stands just a little inside Ryan's room, holding the doorknob. "Please."

Ryan has only just come home from Spencer's, finally; it's been _days._ Brendon had heard him come in during lunch, and had dashed away from the table without even excusing himself. He looks good, though, like at least he's been eating, and maybe working in the garden with Spencer's sisters. His suit is impeccable, his rainbow-striped ascot perfectly matching his rainbow-striped socks.

He lets out a breath and then gestures with his fingers that Brendon should come in. He does, and closes the door behind himself. Brendon has been dreading this conversation for days, but it's a relief that it's finally going to happen. He just wants to get it over with and deal with the consequences, whatever they are.

"Hey," Ryan says. He uses one foot to take off a sock, and then his long toes to pull off the other sock. Brendon watches until Ryan says, "Hey," again. When he looks up, Ryan is actually smiling at him a little. "Spencer says I was an asshole."

"I --" Brendon stops and shakes his head. "A little bit. But..." Brendon holds out his hands, palms up. They have calluses on them from working with the unfamiliar leather reins.

"Spencer says that what people do behind their own closed doors is no one else's business, and that it was wrong of me to throw it in your face." Ryan wrinkles his nose, like he's choking on the words, or they taste bad. "So... I'm sorry."

Brendon feels his eyes widen, and blinks them rapidly. "No -- I mean, it's okay. I wasn't very nice either. But -- Ryan, I have to know. What did you mean when you said --"

"Come on, Brendon. Can we just let it go?" Ryan slumps into his desk chair and runs his hands through his hair, pulling the tie out of it. Like Brendon's, it's getting ridiculously long -- unlike Brendon, Ryan has taken to pulling his back into a small ponytail, usually tied with a velvet ribbon.

"No. I have to know, Ryan. I have to know. What... you don't like men. Why am I here?" Brendon leans against Ryan's bureau and picks pieces of candle wax off it, rolling the rapidly-softening wax in his hot fingers to make tiny balls that he pushes back into the pile of wax. Ryan doesn't answer, and doesn't answer, and doesn't answer... so Brendon says, "I promise, nothing will happen. I mean -- you don't have to. Have to do what I say or what I want or whatever it was that you said. You don't. That's not a marriage anyway."

"Your dad." Ryan clears his throat. He's not looking at Brendon and that's okay because Brendon has a bad feeling that he won't want to be looked at when he hears what Ryan is about to say. "My dad. My dad lost some money and the banks were closed, so he put up the title to the estate. Stupid of him -- the estate is worth a lot more than his bet was. He lost, of course, he always loses, and the man he lost to sold the title to the bank because he didn't want the estate." Ryan laughs a little, a dry, painful sound that Brendon knows is not supposed to indicate that Ryan actually thinks this is funny. "Your dad refused to sell the title back to us until he'd had the estate appraised -- to make sure the bank was getting a full return on its investment. Nice man, your father."

"He's an..." Brendon swallows hard. "He's an asshole." The curse feels strange falling from his lips. Ryan doesn't hear it, in any case.

"But a few days later, before the appraisal had been set up, your dad sent a runner to us with a message. If I joined with you, _married_ you, he said he'd give us back the title -- half in my name and half in yours." Ryan tilts his chair a little, rocking back, balancing with his feet under the front legs. Brendon can't look at his face, only his feet. "My father agreed immediately and sent Frank with the big carriage to get you and bring you here before your father changed his mind. Except we still don't have the title back. Your father keeps promising, but never sends it. Spencer and I just went -- into the city, to the bank. We argued for the title. But your father wouldn't --"

Brendon hisses in a breath. He doesn't mean to make the noise; it just comes out. His _father._ Ruining everyone's lives just to get rid of him, just to teach him a lesson. A lesson he hasn't even _learned._

"I'll get you the title," he promises, and leaves the room before Ryan can say anything else. He's out the front door and more than halfway to the barn before he realizes that he's in work clothes, covered in flour from the kitchen from that morning.

Still, when he gets to the barn, he finds Mikey and says breathlessly, "I have to go into the city. Now. As soon as you can hook up the phaeton."

"Brendon, you can't just run away!" Mikey leans forward and puts a hand on Brendon's arm that Brendon looks down at, feeling puzzled. "I know it's hard, but you should try to work it out -- unless... did he... did he hit you?"

Brendon takes a step back. "What? No -- Mikey, I'm not running away. My father... Do you know what my father did? How he arranged this marriage between Ryan and me?"

Mikey nods. "It's an open secret. But you don't seem _un_ happy, and Ryan's been... It's been better around here. We thought your marriage was... okay."

Brendon shakes his head. "Not exactly, but I need to..." He stops and jerks a hand through his hair, pulling on the ends. "My father never fulfilled his part of the bargain -- he never returned the title for the estate. I need to go get it. Our fathers --" He moves his hand through the air sharply. "This is not an acceptable way to live or have a relationship."

Mikey smiles at Brendon, a real smile, not just a quirk of his mouth. "You can't take the phaeton." He raises a hand when Brendon opens his mouth to protest. "You can take the coupé. How long will you be gone? Frank can drive you."

"I hate the coupé; it's all closed in," protests Brendon. "Can we take the cabriolet?" He's learned all the names for all the different carriages and coaches they have now, and what he really wants is the phaeton, to go by himself --

"Okay, but Frank drives," Mikey says warningly. "You want the palomino?"

"Will she be okay with the --"

"Yup." Mikey pushes his hair out of his face and stares at Brendon so long it makes Brendon kind of uncomfortable. "Everything okay?"

"It will be," says Brendon. "Can Frank bring it around to the front? We won't be staying overnight -- just there and back today."

"You got it."

Brendon turns away before Mikey even finishes his sentence, dashing back for the house. He wishes he hadn't put off getting new clothes, because it's going to be embarrassing walking into his father's bank in his old church clothes, the ones his mother sewed last year. He's gained weight, breadth in his shoulders, and the soft, white shirt is tight around his upper arms in a way it never was before; the jacket pulls across his back. He takes it off and throws it over his arm. He doesn't know what else he'll need, so he carefully folds several greenbacks and tucks them into his bankbook. He stops in Ryan's study -- Ryan's not there, thankfully.

Brendon rummages until he finds the marriage license, still not filled out with their names. He prints them in, has to count on his fingers two weeks and one day from his birthday to write in the date. They need to sign it, Brendon thinks, but he doesn't _know._ He might not even need it. He carefully tucks it into the novel he's been reading, Gerard's worn copy of _The Castle of Otranto,_ and puts the whole thing into his rucksack, the one he got from Pete. His last stop is the kitchen, where he slaps together bread and butter and cheese sandwiches; the kitchen has emptied out -- even Bob is elsewhere -- so he doesn't have to explain his mad dash out of the kitchen to anyone, or where he's going or why. They can find out from Mikey.

But when he gets to the front of the house, it's not the cabriolet in the drive -- it's the four-in-hand coach that Brendon had _just_ helped Mikey's assistant Alex wash yesterday, with the open windows and white top. Instead of Brendon's favorite palomino, the four matched bays are hooked up, their dark manes and tails gleaming in the sun. Frank is wearing proper coachman clothes, neat and tidy, and even has a cap that he tugs on with a wink to Brendon.

Brendon steps up and into the coach and drops the rucksack on the seat between himself and Ryan.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

Ryan shrugs. "I'm coming."

"This is not your business!" says Brendon. He reaches out and pulls the coach door closed -- carefully; it has a wonky latch.

"It is my business, actually." He glares at Brendon. "I'm coming or you're not going."

"You're not the boss of me," Brendon tells him, then slumps back against the leather seat, feeling a spring dig into his back. He frowns out the front of the coach, at Frank's straight back up on the box. "Fine, come, whatever you want."

"Good," says Ryan, and he sounds... satisfied. He's smiling when he leans forward and raps on the front windowpane. "Go," he says loudly, and Frank clicks the horses forward, first at a walk and then an uncomfortable trot that makes the carriage sway, and then finally, when they get to the main road, into a canter.

Brendon settles in, preparing for it to be an awkward ride. When Brendon goes in with the others, they sing, or read aloud. But Ryan reads _literature;_ Brendon's never seen him with a penny dreadful, not once. The nights they read to each other, it's always things like Dickens or Shakespeare or _An American Yankee in King Arthur's Court_ or _The Portrait of a Lady._ Spencer usually reads children's books to them; they're halfway through _Little Women._

The sun is hot, even though the white top of the coach. When Brendon looks outside, through the windows, the bright noon sun hurts his eyes. He reaches over and opens one of the windows, lifts up the small wooden stick to hold it in place against the jostling. It lets in the noise, but it also lets in air.

After an hour of sitting in silence, Ryan speaks, and it jolts Brendon so much that he almost slides off the seat.

"You don't have to do this," repeats Ryan when Brendon has resituated himself.

"I know," says Brendon. He doesn't look at Ryan, just stares down at the way his old black pants stretch across his thighs. They are tighter than his father's sense of propriety would have them, and almost too short. Brendon doesn't _feel_ like he's grown any taller, but he must have done; his socks are visible, when before the trousers fell sharply across his shoes when he sat.

"Brendon..." Brendon listens to Ryan sigh, barely audible over the sound of the horses and wind outside. "I..." He stops again.

"Ryan, don't," Brendon says. "I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do, because my father is wrong, and has been wrong throughout this whole affair. I like you -- everything aside, I enjoy most of the time we spend together. I like living on the estate, and I like all the servants and the hands and their children and the way you and Spencer run things. I'm doing this as much for me as for you." He dares a glance over at Ryan, and sees that Ryan is staring stonily ahead. "And... we never have to -- we don't have to. You can." He stops, frustrated. He doesn't know _how_ to say this.

"We can have an open joining," Ryan says for him. "Find our pleasure with others." He does not even blush. Brendon is jealous of that ability.

"Yes, if you wanted," Brendon manages. "I know I am naïve, but it wouldn't -- it wouldn't bother me. I want you to -- I want -- I --" He stumbles over the words, but finally manages to get them out. "I like you. I want you to be. Happy."

Ryan doesn't reply to that, and Brendon goes back to watching the desert fly by.

*

Brendon does not want to talk to his father, or see his father, or have to walk into the bank in his shabby, plain clothes. He looks even shabbier next to Ryan, who is wearing some kind of old-fashioned suit, with fall front trousers and an elaborately tied silk cravat. Ryan's spectator boots click loudly on bank's floor; Brendon's father had thought the marble prideful and wasteful, but Brendon likes it.

Ryan strides right through the bank and Brendon follows, and some of the tellers crane their necks to look. Brendon hears their whispers and wishes he'd taken the time to brush his hair, or have Gerard give him a haircut. At least he'd washed his face, taking care to get all the flour off his neck.

Brendon knows the secretary sitting outside his father's office; Brent Wilson had come to supper at Brendon's house several times. Brendon's father had encouraged their friendship; they were almost the same age. "Mr. Wilson, I want to see Mr. Urie," Ryan says to Brent.

"Mr. Ross, you know Mr. Urie --"

Ryan cuts him off; he tugs Brendon up to the desk. "I'm sure you know Mr. Urie's youngest son Brendon -- my spouse? We require Brendon's father."

Brent smiles a little at Brendon, but Brendon refuses to smile back. He keeps his mouth turned down, lips pressed tightly together the way he's seen Spencer do when he's angry, eyes narrowed like Ryan's.

"Get my father," he says, as flatly as he can through his sheer terror.

Clearly Brendon's father hadn't told Brent that he'd disowned Brendon, because Brent leaps to do what Brendon's said. Once Brent is through the door, into Brendon's father's office, Brendon feels Ryan touch his hand -- one finger, curled around Brendon's pinky, squeezing tightly.

When Brent comes out of the office, Ryan lets go, but Brendon continues to feel a little better.

"You can go in," says Brent. He holds the door for them, shuts it behind them.

Brendon's father looks exactly the same. How can that be? Brendon is entirely different.

He looks at Brendon like Brendon is just another stranger come into the bank for funds or a loan.

Brendon takes a deep breath. "Give me the title," he says, and is proud of himself that his voice is even.

"No, I don't think so," says -- Brendon can't think of him as _Father_ \-- he settles on Mr. Urie. He's holding a pen, and wearing his glasses, the very same glasses Brendon used to slide on when he was a child and pretending he'd be a banker when he grew up. Brendon feels a pang of homesickness, even though... well, he's not really homesick, is he? Because he wouldn't go back and live by their rules, even if they'd take him.

"Give it to me, or so help me, I will drag our whole family through the mud when I tell everyone what you've done. Coerced marriage is a crime under the Equality Laws. You could go to prison." Brendon steps closer to the desk.

"You would never," scoffs Mr. Urie.

"Just try me," growls Brendon. "You sent me away and told me to make a new, secular family. And I have, and I will protect them -- even from you."

"You would never do that to your mother." But he sounds less sure.

Unfair. But still -- "She did not want to keep me either, did she? Give me the title, and I promise you will never have to see me again. What do you plan to do with it, anyway? Steal the estate and lands right out from under the Rosses? A true Saint would never." Well, Brendon isn't sure about that, but his father blanches. "I will have you put in prison, I swear I will do it."

Mr. Urie stands, and Brendon wants to step back, but doesn't. Instead, he takes a deep breath while his father walks to the wall safe and twirls the dial. His heart pounds wildly when the envelope comes out -- and he steps to the side, and makes his father hand the envelope to Ryan.

"Check it," snaps Brendon. Ryan opens the envelope -- it's thick, but maybe a title isn't like a marriage license, just one powerful sheet of paper. Brendon's not dramatic enough to think that his life changed with the judge telling them to live in joy and signing the marriage license, though -- it was everything, all together, that changed Brendon's life, including Brendon himself. Brendon is different now, less afraid -- the worst has already happened, and Brendon, luckily, somehow, some way managed to land on his feet, with a spouse who is not horrifying and friends who love him and don't care about his personal preferences and --

Mr. Urie puts out a hand, as if to touch Brendon, and Brendon jerks away. "Do not," he says, as sternly as he can.

"It's all here," says Ryan. He closes the envelope and tucks it under one arm. "Let's go."

"I was only -- I was only thinking of you," Mr. Urie says to Brendon in a low voice. "Trying to protect you."

"Too late," snaps Brendon. He turns on the worn heel of his shoes, grabs Ryan by the hand, and leaves -- leaves before he can do anything stupid, like throw his arms around his father and ask why, ask what his father truly thought would happen, how this could possibly have gone any differently.

They stride through the bank to another chorus of whispering. Halfway through the bank, Ryan turns his hand so that he's holding Brendon's properly.

*

The next day, Ryan comes into the kitchen with Spencer instead of staying in his study. Brendon spent the night in the kitchen, telling everyone the tale of how he faced down his father and only felt a little awful, while Spencer and Ryan secreted themselves in Spencer's suite. Brendon let Lyn bring up their trays, stayed away.

Brendon is wrist-deep in the biscuit dough Bob is going to put on top of the casserole of vegetables and meat he's making for the hands' lunch, and he knows he definitely has some flour on his nose from where he scratched it earlier.

"Brendon, your father never changed the title over," Spencer tells him, "so Ryan and I have written up an agreement and would like you to sign it." He doesn't even look at the other people in the room, just sits down across from Brendon with a long sheet of paper covered in his careful script and another covered in type.

"No, I don't --" Brendon looks over at Ryan. "I don't need your estate."

"Yes, you do," Ryan tells him. "What if something happens? We didn't even --" Ryan _does_ look around, but keeps going anyway. "We didn't even sign the marriage license!"

"Does that mean..." Brendon shifts uncomfortably. "Are we not really married?"

He hates that it matters to him, even a little, but sharing a bed and house with someone not his spouse, even if that spouse is a man... that is...

He wants to think it is awful, but then he thinks of Toro and Bob, and Mikey and Frank, and Jamia and Lyn, and -- well, _they_ are not awful. So maybe it's not _so_ bad.

"Legally, you _were_ joined. You had a ceremony. But..." Spencer shrugs. "If there's no record of it, you can't prove it except by testimony from the judge who joined you. Unless." Spencer stops and looks up at Ryan, then back at Brendon. "Do you want to sign the joining license now?"

Brendon swallows hard. He does _not_ want to sign the license. He doesn't _want_ to be married to Ryan, joined to him, to be a Ross instead of a Urie. He doesn't much want to be a Urie either, but... staying the same is not the same as making a choice to change.

"I --" He looks up at Ryan, who's looking down at him with the calmest expression Brendon's ever seen on his face.

"That's what I thought. Well, I don't want to either, but it's not fair to leave you out in the cold, either. So you'll sign -- it gives you thirty-three percent of the estate."

"Thir --" Brendon's mouth is dry. Thirty-three percent is less than fifty, but not by much. When he looks down at the paper, the typed one, at the bottom, Ryan's signed over his own name. Next to his typed name it says "(34%)" and then right next to that is Spencer's name and signature -- "(33%)".

When Brendon looks up, dry-mouthed, heart pounding, Spencer's grinning at him. "Business partners," he says happily. "Sign it, Brendon."

So Brendon wipes off his hands and takes the fountain pen Lyn holds out to him, and signs carefully on the line above the typed BRENDON URIE (33%). His signature is a little wobbly, and the paper ends up with flour on it from the table, but no one seems to care.

Ryan holds out his hand and he and Brendon shake -- and then Brendon stands up and grabs Ryan in a hug. He doesn't... he doesn't understand why Ryan's done this, except maybe Ryan likes him a little bit, too. Then he hugs Spencer, and... it's a totally different kind of hug; all he can feel is the heat and strength of Spencer's body against his, the way Spencer's stubble brushes against his skin.

Brendon can't catch his breath, even when he wobbles and sits down, and they toast everyone in the kitchen with coffee to celebrate the new partnership.

That night, after supper, they light a candle in the drawing room and burn the marriage license. Brendon is sorry to see it go, would have liked to have kept it as a memento or... something. After it burns, though, Ryan and Spencer both hug him again.

Even later that night -- it would have been a Ryan night, if they -- well. Even later that night, Brendon opens the seam of his pillow and pulls out the sheaf of papers. For the first time since his father kicked him out, he wants to write a song.

*

Brendon falls into a schedule -- mornings in the kitchen with Bob. The hands are starting the harvest, and Bob is teaching him pickling and preserving, how to set aside vegetables, how to keep things from going bad in the heat and cold. Then lunch with Spencer and Ryan; they mostly talk about the business, but sometimes Ryan talks about the book he's reading, or Spencer reads them funny bits from the city newspaper. Afternoons Brendon spends in the barn with Alicia, who teaches him to clean and wax the leathers, and Mikey, who teaches him to saddle and bridle horses, and how to ride an English saddle. He mucks out stalls and helps wash the carriages and curry-combs the horses and braids ribbons into their manes.

Suppers are for everyone gathered around the table, except for whoever's bringing the food to the hands; a few times every week, Spencer goes out to eat with the hands, and Ryan takes a tray in his room. Brendon can't blame him; he doesn't really want to eat without Spencer's buffering presence either. Nights are spent in the drawing room or the library, Brendon playing the piano or his steel-string guitar, or Ryan or Spencer reading aloud. Ryan is on to _The Gilded Age,_ which Brendon finds depressing and awful, and on nights when Ryan reads from it, Brendon flees to his room after to cleanse his mind with the gothic romances he borrows from Gee.

It's nice. It's almost... comfortable. Brendon wouldn't mind, necessarily, if this was his life. He's lonely, but he's _always_ been lonely. At least now he has a lot of friends, and can go into the city to play at Decadence whenever he wants without anyone lifting an eyebrow. Mikey has even approved of his driving, so he can take the phaeton and doesn't have to worry about sitting on horseback for three hours, or making someone go with him. He owns several new pairs of form-fitting trousers for special occasions, and colorful ties, and even a silk jacket.

But then Mr. Ross dies.

*

Ryan collapses in on himself. Brendon can't think of any other way to describe what happens. He speaks at his father's funeral -- and a lot of people come, more than Brendon had expected. Spencer's parents and sisters, many of the hands who'd been around for more than the few years Spencer had been in charge. Businesspeople from the city, other ranchers, even the owner of Mr. Ross's favorite casino, a tall black man with snapping dark eyes, who Brendon actually recognizes from nights at Decadence.

When Ryan speaks, he doesn't say what Brendon expects, either. He says, "My father was not a perfect man, but I know no man who is," and he says, "My father loved equality, believed in it and supported it, and it's in his honor that I carry on his tradition of equality in the Ross business," and he says, "I wish my father had died a happier man," which makes Brendon's heart twist in his chest. He blindly reaches out a hand, and Spencer's mother, sitting to his left, catches it and holds it. When he looks over, he sees she's also holding onto Spencer's father, and they're both crying.

But of course, Brendon realizes. They probably knew Mr. Ross before the war -- or, at least, before he was such a mess. They probably knew Mrs. Ross before she left; they've known Ryan his whole life. They're grieving, too. Then he feels like a fraud, because he's not grieving for Mr. Ross -- is almost glad Mr. Ross is finally gone, never to make trouble for Ryan again, or call him a terrible son, or hit him. He bets Gerard feels the same way, though, bets Gerard is also grieving for Ryan.

The coffin is plain, so that Mr. Ross will be accepted back into the earth as quickly as possible. The wind whips sand everywhere at the graveside; Brendon's going to be washing it out of his hair and ears for days. At the end of the service, Ryan reads a sad poem that Spencer's mother whispers to him is about President Lincoln and the War. It seems oddly appropriate to Brendon, and he shivers when Ryan's raw voice says, "O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells!"

*

"Aren't you at all concerned?" Brendon asks Bob and Toro. It's after midnight, and Ryan is still awake, banging on the piano. He doesn't play at all -- he's just picking out strange tunes, sometimes no tune at all, just making noise. At points it sounds like he literally is just banging his fists on the keys. The sound echoes through the house.

Brendon wishes Spencer had stayed, but Ryan had sent him away, told him to go home and take a bath and leave Ryan to sulk for a while. And Spencer had gone, but unhappily; Ryan has, for days, sounded perfectly self-possessed, and Brendon wishes it worried everyone else the way it worries him.

Bob is focused on rolling out scones and cutting them into triangles, and Toro is focused on Bob. But Brendon doesn't let up, and finally Bob sighs.

"Listen, Ryan's either going to deal with this or he's not. Eventually he'll... be okay." Bob shrugs. "He's had years of handling the disappointment of his family, and now he'll handle this, too. When he wants us to poke our noses into his business, we'll be here for him. But no one can force him to do anything. Just as we never forced you." And Bob gives him a meaningful look, although what it's supposed to mean, Brendon is unsure.

"I don't know what you mean," he tells Bob, frowning, "but I get it about Ryan. I just --" A particularly loud crash makes Brendon jump a little, knock into his glass of water. Luckily, it doesn't spill over Bob's dried currant scones, or Brendon would, as Bob has said on many occasions, "be in a world of hurt."

"It's okay," says Toro. He's always calm, the calmest person Brendon has ever met, which is probably why he makes a good butler. He easily takes control of every situation -- he'd arranged for the coffin, for the plot at the cemetery, had sent out notices to the papers about the funeral and had arranged for the priest to come, found one who wouldn't read from the Bible. Mr. Ross had been Catholic, apparently; who knew? "Brendon. Seriously. It's going to be fine. Ryan just needs a few days, maybe even a few weeks. Think about how you felt when you first got here -- in shock, right? You needed to adjust to a different world. Now Ryan does."

Brendon nods, but doesn't feel comforted, even when Bob gives him a scone soaked with melted butter and honey.

But Toro and Bob are right -- there is nothing Brendon can do. He cannot coax Ryan into eating, or even taking a cup of coffee in the mornings. Ryan refuses to be read to at night, doesn't want to listen to Brendon play "little ditties," as he scornfully calls them. He turns Spencer away at his bedroom door, and won't let anyone in to change his sheets or fill his bath. Nothing seems to tempt him into eating, although Mikey swears to Brendon on Alicia's life that he saw Ryan nibbling at a carrot one night, hidden in Hobo's stall.

The next time Brendon is awake when Ryan slips out to the barn, he steals into Ryan's room with Lyn to go through Ryan's food stashes. Lyn has a basket full of replacement food, including a small jar of honey and a packet of exotic nuts from back east and strips of dried rabbit that smell like death to Brendon, but Lyn swears Ryan loves them.

"Frank gets upset when we kill rabbits," Lyn tells him as she tucks food into Ryan's hiding places -- which, Brendon is relieved to see, are all almost empty, which means at least Ryan is eating a little. "I don't know why he cares about rabbits particularly, but he does, so I trade with the Nuwuvi who live near Spencer for the jerky."

"It's gross," says Brendon, wrinkling his nose.

Lyn shrugs. "I think honey is disgusting. It's bee poop." She stacks Ryan's handkerchiefs over the packets of nuts, and slides the drawer shut. "To each their own." She sounds annoyed, but she smiles at Brendon when he slips a new fountain pen out of his pocket and onto Ryan's mess of a desk, so he knows she's not really angry.

*

The winter nights are cold, and Brendon's lonely in his bed in the empty east wing. Christmas slips by with no celebration, and Brendon turns down an invitation to the Smith household for New Year's Eve when Ryan says he's not going. Ryan curls up in the barn with Hobo and two quilts, while Brendon spends the night in the kitchen. Spencer shows up with five minutes left until the new year begins, and doesn't say anything when Brendon has a sip of Jamia's champagne.

"Live in joy!" everyone choruses, and Brendon looks down, blushing, when they begin kissing each other. He's jolted when someone presses a kiss to his cheek -- it's Spencer, who smiles at him.

"Live in joy, Brendon," he says.

"Live in joy," replies Brendon slowly, unsure if he's supposed to kiss Spencer back or not. He wants to -- but perhaps that's why he shouldn't. It's better if he doesn't think about Spencer; he has to see Spencer every day. They eat many meals together, spend a lot of time together... it's better if Brendon keeps some distance, even fake distance. Even distance that doesn't mean anything.

His thoughts are interrupted when Jamia kisses him on the mouth, and then kisses Spencer, and then Lyn kisses them, and then Gerard, Frank. Alicia bites his lower lip and laughs. Bob and Toro are already gone when Brendon looks around, and so is Mikey; even though Brendon is used to it now, the fluctuating groupings, his chest aches. Everyone has someone, or two someones, or four someones, and Brendon bids Spencer good night and squeezes his hand in lieu of returning the kiss, and goes upstairs to a cold bed, cold quilts in his dark, lonely room.

*

Nothing Rhymes With CIRCUS! yells the advert in the newspaper from the city. Spencer's brought it along, folded in with mail from the east and the week's greenbacks for the cowboys and field hands. Brendon tugs it out of Spencer's pile and stares at it while he drinks his coffee and Spencer chats with Ryan about the black mustang.

Starring the Lovely Like Ladies on Horseback!  
Featuring the Genderqueer Fortuneteller!  
Come for Alex's Animals, Stay for Walker's Wild Weed!  
Don't Miss the Clever Donkeys, Educated Monkeys, and Cassadee the Strongwoman!

There's also a snake charmer and a trapeze act, and even a tightrope dancer.

At the bottom of the ad, in small words, it says, _Seeking a Musical Assistant; Must know notation and be able to write lyrics. Accepting only the pretty/odd. Direct inquiries to Disashi._

Brendon can't stop staring at the advert. Ryan knows notation. Ryan can write lyrics. Ryan is pretty; Ryan is odd. And Ryan needs to get away, to run away, to cast off the shackles of being a Ross and find a place in the world for _himself._

And isn't that one of the first things Spencer had ever said to Brendon? That he wished Ryan would join the circus; that maybe Brendon could be a good influence on him, get him to lighten up.

Brendon looks up from the advert to study Ryan. The winter sun is nice to him, makes his skin glow pink and gold, picks up the deep colors in his hair. He's still in all black, in mourning for his father, but he's begun smiling again in the last few days. The circus will be outside the city in February. The advert says it has fifty-three horses, including a snow-white mustang. Brendon's never seen snow, but he's heard it is pure white, like clouds.

Ryan will love it.

*

Brendon lets Spencer in on the plan. He wishes he could do it all by himself, wishes he knew Ryan well enough -- but even now, after everything, he knows he doesn't.

"This is perfect," declares Spencer. Then he starts laughing.

"What?" says Brendon. He takes the crumpled advertisement from Spencer's fist and smoothes it out on the desk. "If it's perfect, why are you laughing?"

"It's just... did I ever tell you?" asks Spencer. He leans back in his chair as he catches his breath, and stretches his arms behind his head. Brendon's mouth goes dry when Spencer's shirt untucks from his trousers and displays a slice of his stomach. Brendon forces himself to look away, to look down at the clipping.

"No, I'm sorry. Did you tell me what?" Brendon can't focus, not with Spencer's skin on display like that.

"That when we were children, Ryan wanted to run away and join the circus." Spencer shakes his head. "I knew, Brendon. I knew that even though this --" Spencer stops and looks... embarrassed.

"No, say it," prods Brendon. He leans on the corner of the desk, keeping his eyes away from Spencer's stomach, relieved when he lowers his arms.

"I knew that you coming would be good for Ryan. Shake him up. And now this. It's like fate, Brendon. It's perfect," says Spencer quietly. "I don't want him to go, but -- maybe he could be happy. Traveling, horses, fortune tellers. He used to have a deck of fortune-telling cards. We didn't know what they meant, but we'd play with them for hours -- until his father took them away. Threw them in the fire."

"That's terrible," says Brendon, even though he's a little unsure that small boys should be playing at telling fortunes. The thoughts implanted in him for his whole life are like handcuffs that he has to keep throwing off at the strangest times. Who cares about the harmless games children play?

"This is perfect, Brendon," Spencer says again. "We should try to get Ryan there without him realizing what we're doing. A true surprise."

Brendon agrees, and bends his head to Spencer's to relate his plan to tell Ryan it's a horse show of purebred Arabians.

*

It is relieving to Brendon -- and, he knows, to Spencer -- that even before the circus, Ryan begins to perk up. He still doesn't go into his father's rooms to clear them out, but he starts reading again, eating meals instead of grazing. He's still too thin, his eyes poking out from his face like one of Dickens's gamine orphans, and his smiles are too quick to come and go, but he's _Ryan_ again.

He even comes with Brendon to Decadence one night and dances with Pete, sings sad cowboy songs with Brendon and Travie, drinks Coca-Cola and steals sips of Brendon's ginger ale -- and smokes a pipe full of cannabis with Joe and Marie. His pupils are wide as he walks with Brendon to their hotel, arm in arm, staggering a little, but laughing.

"I'm glad we're not joined anymore," he tells Brendon seriously as Brendon helps him unbutton his trousers before dumping him on one of the beds. "I don't think I'd like your friends if we were still joined. I'd hate them. But I love them. I love them."

"Sure," says Brendon, and he flips the covers over Ryan and lets him fall asleep murmuring to himself.

*

The day of the "horse sale," Brendon dresses in nice clothes, lets Ryan tie his tie in some complicated knot and doesn't pay attention to Ryan's explanation of it. When Spencer comes out of his rooms, his tie perfectly tied, Ryan makes him sit down so Ryan can retie it to match Brendon's. Spencer looks like he was awake all night -- and he probably was; whenever he sleeps over, he and Ryan always stay up whispering to each other like children. Brendon half finds it endearing and wonderful, and half is mad with jealousy and loneliness. Just like when he was a child and his siblings spoke what felt like a language Brendon would never be able to learn.

Spencer has a bag with him -- he tells Ryan it's "business stuff; don't even pretend you're interested!" but Brendon knows it's actually some of Ryan's possessions that he and Spencer have been secreting away to pack for Ryan to take. His favorite satin waistcoat, three of his favorite books, several pairs of Spencer's father's hand-knit socks, made especial for Ryan, and Spencer's mother's butter cookies, the kind dipped in melted chocolate that Ryan consumes by the pound. Brendon wasn't sure if he should put anything personal in, a small token, something, and he almost didn't -- but last night he stayed up late, too, writing out the musical notation for a song. He'd set one of Ryan's poems to music. Maybe Ryan would hate it, but maybe he'd like it -- or, at least, be happily reminded of Brendon when he looks at it.

Brendon's folded up the paper to be as small as possible, and he slips it to Spencer while Ryan is cooing over Hobo and feeding her sugar cubes.

Spencer tucks it into the letter of credit that assures Ryan will be able to get money from any bank; also tucked into the folds of the letter are greenbacks. And there's a bag of gold and silver Brendon filled himself.

They don't take a carriage, just horses -- "Ryan should get to ride Hobo one last time, even if he doesn't know it's the last time for now," Spencer had pointed out -- and by the time they're close to the circus, Brendon's legs are hurting.

But Ryan's eyes are wide and delighted, and he even entrusts Hobo to the makeshift stables without more than a few minutes of lecture on what she likes and how to properly rub down her legs. The woman running the stables introduces herself as Victoria and Ryan falls into immediate love with her. Brendon can tell by the way his eyes follow her everywhere until they walk away.

"I can't believe," says Ryan. "You _liars."_ But he's clearly delighted.

"We were thinking..." Spencer glances at Brendon and pulls the advertisement out of his pocket, along with a sheet of pink paper. He'd sent a letter, addressed in his family's queer way, to "Person Disashi," and signed, "Person S. Smith, representative of Person G.R. Ross." Spencer's mother had told Brendon that it is the proper way for an equal society -- but mostly how some women signed their notes, if they didn't want people to know they were women.

"Some parts of the country," she'd said to Brendon, shaking her head sadly, "still don't accept the Equality Laws. Luckily, most of the people out here are on the side of equality."

Brendon hadn't understood why Spencer did it that way, but didn't want to ask, in case it marked him as being stupid or somehow implied to Spencer that he was against it. He'd asked Lyn, though, and Jamia, one day when they were rolling out biscuits.

"Well, you don't know anything about the people who run the circus," Lyn had said thoughtfully. "Maybe he wanted to make sure that Person Disashi is interested in what Ryan can do, not what's between his legs."

"That makes sense, I guess," Brendon had said, and had felt satisfied. Of course Spencer would take as much care with Ryan as possible. It made more jealousy flare in his heart, though, and he had forced it down and away.

For all that Brendon knows his parents were -- are -- wrong about so many things, he knows they weren't wrong that jealousy, envy, is a destructive force that can rip even the strongest ties apart if indulged. Brendon refuses to indulge. Brendon refuses to rip anything apart if he can hold it together instead.

And watching Ryan as Spencer explains about Person Disashi and the job opening at the circus that Ryan can fill, watching the joy fill his whole face, Brendon knows that holding things together is the right choice. Ryan's happiness and excitement fill his whole being contagiously; Brendon can feel it leaking into him.

*

"I've been a terrible spouse," Ryan says, as though it is a confession, or something Brendon didn't know.

"Yes," agrees Brendon. "Me, too."

"You'll take care of the estate." Ryan's eyes follow the Like Ladies hungrily; the circus has cast a spell on Ryan. Brendon's never seen him so alive.

"Of course," he promises. "You'll come back to visit?"

"You won't mind if I bring -- bring people?" says Ryan. He looks away from the Like Ladies and their beautiful grey Castilians with their funny gait to look at Brendon -- and, for the first time, Brendon feels like Ryan is not trying to stare through him.

"I hope you do. Fall in love. Be happy." Brendon hesitates, feeling silly, but adds, "Be free. Live in joy."

A big smile splits Ryan's face. "Live in joy, Brendon." He leans forward and brushes his mouth over Brendon's, then hugs him. It's like hugging a sapling, Brendon thinks, but holds him tight. "Take care of Spencer," Ryan whispers in his ear. "Don't let him tell you no."

Brendon thinks he must have misheard, but Ryan is pulling away, picking up the bag Brendon and Spencer had carefully packed, and running toward the horses before Brendon can say anything, before he can ask. His heart is thumping so quickly; Brendon puts his hand over it to slow it down. The bright colors of Ryan's waistcoat and trousers shine in the sunlight, and then he's gone, melting into the rainbow of the circus.

He watches as the circus parade trails down the road, into the desert.

When he feels someone next to him, he turns. Spencer. Grinning, hands in his trouser pockets. Brendon remembers that the first time he ever saw Spencer, he'd thought, _Gunslinger._ He still thinks that -- the way Spencer cocks his hip, wears all black, stands like he carries a gun. But he doesn't, and now that Brendon knows him, he knows how silly the very thought is.

"He'll come back to visit," Spencer says confidently. "We still have Mestengo, and I told Ryan I plan to breed him with Hobo."

Brendon laughs. The wind is cold and dry, and he lets it lift his laughter up.

"We should go before the sun sets," Spencer says, and turns to walk away.

"Spencer." Brendon doesn't move. "He told me to take care of you. He told me -- he told me not to let you tell me no."

Spencer, to Brendon's shock, blushes, his golden tan cheeks turning red. "I told him to leave it alone," Spencer mumbles.

"I don't..." Brendon takes a step closer, and then another. "You'll have to be specific with me, Spencer. You'll have to -- you know Ryan and I could never... I need you to say," he says, almost apologetically. "I --"

"I've sort of..." Spencer shakes his head. Brendon misses when his hair was long enough to float around his head when he did that. "I like you," Spencer says. "I like you a lot."

"What kind of liking?" Brendon knows he sounds childish, but he needs to _know._ Before he does something foolish -- more foolish. "The kind of liking like how you like Ryan and horses and --"

Spencer steps close to Brendon, puts his hands on Brendon's face. Brendon can feel the calluses from riding, writing, from swinging an axe to split wood when he gets angry. They catch on Brendon's stubble. He wants to feel them everywhere.

"Please let this mean what I think it means," he says. His voice sounds so breathy, but Spencer doesn't seem to care; Spencer dips his head and kisses Brendon, his soft mouth covering Brendon's, his tongue wet, tracing Brendon's lips until Brendon opens, and lets Spencer in, clutching at Spencer's elbows, waist, pulling him closer, biting at his mouth.

*

Spencer kisses him and _leaves._

Well, first they ride home, Hobo following placidly, stealing glances at each other. Brendon blushes every time. Then they kiss everywhere -- they stumble into the house with their arms wrapped around each other's waists, and knock into each other on their way up the stairs. They don't go through the kitchen, or to Brendon's suite in the east wing, but to Spencer's suite in the hallway with Ryan's. It's across the hall, and Brendon flashes to all the times he came down this hallway and turned to the right instead of the left, then pushes those nights out of his mind.

Spencer has a real suite, Brendon notices, as they fall into it. He has a living room with a couch and chairs, and closets, and a bedroom. His bedroom is like Ryan's -- no windows, just a huge bed and a small desk, a wardrobe, and a bureau, but there aren't books and papers everywhere, no danger of toppling an ink pot or candle if Brendon moves the wrong way. His desk is neat and tidy, which Brendon has cause to notice because Spencer pushes him into it, onto it, steps between his spread legs, and kisses him.

He's hard against Brendon, and his fingers clutch at Brendon's skin and scratch through Brendon's clothes while his mouth -- his mouth just _ravages_ Brendon's.

"Bed, bed, bed, take me to bed," Brendon says into his mouth, licking over his lips. He sucks Spencer's top lip into his mouth and feels Spencer's beard and mustache tickle a little. He runs his hands over the beard on Spencer's cheeks -- it feels like the short hairs on a horse's mane, soft but bristly.

"I can't," gasps Spencer. He grinds against Brendon, and it feels _so good,_ their bodies pressed together. Brendon _wants it,_ his body wants it, he wants to be underneath Spencer, he wants -- he wants to lick Spencer all over and try everything he's ever thought about --

"What do you mean _can't?"_ he demands. He feels so daring when he steals a hand between them to _feel_ Spencer through his trousers, run the heel of his hand down where Spencer is so hard and wide. Brendon's mouth waters.

"It's improper," Spencer tells him, "to crawl into your bed the day Ryan leaves. Regardless of the -- the rest." He doesn't mention the aborted joining, the never-signed, burnt-up joining certificate. "It's -- it's rude."

"I had not been to Ryan's bed in months," Brendon says, frustrated. "Surely you know that. Since August! And he _said!"_

"I just -- don't you feel --" Spencer steps back and runs a hand through his hair. His hat is somewhere... else. Maybe downstairs? "Don't you feel strange about this? Ryan has only just left."

"If I had been any kind of spouse, Ryan and I would have been finding pleasure outside each other since the beginning," Brendon says, the honesty feeling painful and grating against his throat. "I was too innocent; I had never. I didn't know."

Spencer grimaces. "I need -- look, Brendon, I like you. I want to be with you. That's not going to change. But I only just found out it was -- I mean, it was only last night that Ryan even said -- I need some _time,_ okay? I need to... adjust."

"You know that Ryan does not like men, right?" says Brendon. "You know it was awful the whole time, right? Did he tell you --" Brendon breaks off and looks away. He feels his cheeks get hot, and puts a hand to one. His other he untwines and props behind himself so he can lean back, away from Spencer.

He suddenly feels foolish and silly, and isn't sure why; he wants to cover himself, go back to his own rooms.

"Brendon," says Spencer on a sigh. His hands come up to cup Brendon's face and put their foreheads together. "Brendon. Just give me a night or two. I need to -- I need to reassess, to think."

Brendon knows how important thinking things through is to Spencer, especially working for the Rosses and being Ryan's best friend. Spencer's told him -- small things. But he knows, and it's small and petty of him to want everything he's never had _right now._

"Yes," he says in a small voice, and Spencer kisses him again, keeping their bodies apart. But his mouth is enough -- wet and hot and Brendon hasn't been kissed since... since ever, since that one time with Ryan and that was _all,_ and it's amazing to kiss Spencer, to feel his tongue and his lips, the calluses on his hands scraping against Brendon's skin.

"I want to make it good for you," Spencer tells him between kisses. "I want you to love it and want more, I want you to -- has it ever been good?"

Brendon is so hard, so turned on, but so -- so embarrassed. Ryan never spoke to him like this.

"Not with another person," he mumbles, and surges into another kiss. He wraps one of his legs around Spencer's leg, as much as he can get it to go around and not slide off, their trousers in the way. "It's been good by myself --"

"Do you -- have you ever, with your own fingers?" asks Spencer. He pulls his mouth away from Brendon's, but before Brendon can protest, Spencer is nudging his head to the side and licking the sweat off Brendon's throat, teeth scraping skin.

"Yes," Brendon tells him, his head falling back, baring his throat to Spencer's teeth for more. "And -- I have. I have a -- a phallus that I use, that I --" Spencer's teeth feel so good, Brendon can't keep his thoughts straight. He just wants Spencer to _touch him,_ damn the impropriety, if there would even be any. "It's wooden, and I -- I got it for practice, but I still use it --"

Spencer steps away again, suddenly, turning his back, arms wrapped around himself. "Oh, god, _Brendon,"_ he says -- almost... almost _tremulously,_ like someone in a novel. He's taking in deep draughts of air. "Oh, shit."

Brendon has never heard Spencer curse before.

"I can't --" Spencer flaps a hand at him, still gasping in air. While his back is turned, Brendon sneaks a hand down to his own penis and rubs it a little. The memory of rubbing Spencer's through his trousers is an overlay on what he's doing now, and it turns him on so much. He wants to rub his _face_ against Spencer.

When Spencer turns around, he still looks painfully hard, but --

"Brendon, that is so... just the _idea."_ He shakes his head. "I think I know what I want to --" He breaks off and takes another deep breath. "I still have to work tomorrow, and I'm serious about propriety. I..."

"You know everyone knows, right? There's no one who would..." Brendon stops and sighs at himself. He doesn't want to pressure Spencer, doesn't want to... If it were him, he'd appreciate it if Spencer gave him the time he needed, whether Spencer needed the time or not. "Whenever you're ready, okay? I can wait for you."

Spencer nods sharply, comes close to press a quick kiss against Brendon's mouth, and then... leaves.

Brendon knows it makes him creepy, but he lies down on Spencer's bed and smells the pillows, and rubs his cock through his pants, pillow pressed to his face.

*

Spencer still comes over every day to work in the study, but he has another desk brought in, and he and Brendon work side by side. Not that Brendon has a lot to put in the desk, but it's nice to sit next to Spencer. And he requires Brendon's signature on things because Ryan's not there -- without Ryan, both Spencer and Brendon have to sign off on whatever's going on. Notes to the bank to release funds to pay extra hands for the upcoming planting season, which horses to breed...

Brendon sits with Spencer through a presentation from Lopez and Todd on why they should order and plant olive trees, and discusses it with Spencer and Toro and Bob over supper in the kitchen. Brendon and Spencer have to decide whether the expense involved in investing in the trees and the olive-processing equipment would be worth the profit made from selling the olives and their oil; ultimately, it's their names on the purchase orders and Brendon himself gets to tell Lopez and Todd they approved their proposal. The glow of pride he gets from Spencer's beaming smile of approval when he demonstrates understanding of how their business works doesn't hurt either.

Every night before Spencer goes home, he presses a kiss to Brendon's mouth, but that's it. Brendon goes to bed aching, stares at the phallus, and puts it away -- he wants _Spencer,_ not just _anything._ And it feels weird, unexpected -- at no point during his marriage did he specifically want _Ryan._

Almost a month after Ryan leaves, they get a thick envelope -- not just a letter. Not a letter at all. Pictures spill out when Brendon opens it. They're labeled in Ryan's spidery handwriting on their backs -- _Me and Jon Walker,_ says one, in which Ryan is standing with a sturdy-looking bearded man, each of them holding several kittens. _Me and Z,_ says another -- Ryan standing on the back of a horse holding hands with a slight woman standing on the horse next to him. One is of _Alex,_ a man sitting on the ground, leaning against a lion, eyes closed. Another is _Learning to tell fortunes,_ Ryan in the sunlight, on grass, seven cards with strange designs laid out in front of him in a triangle. Ryan's head is thrown back and he's laughing, the sunlight making him glow.

"He looks really happy," says Brendon, staring at the picture of him standing on a horse. He's smiling so widely, and his cheeks are rounder than they had been when he'd left, and he just... looks really happy.

"Yeah," says Spencer softly. He's has the picture of Ryan holding kittens in one hand, and the laughing picture in another. "Hey, Brendon?"

"Yeah?" Brendon squints at _Learning to tell fortunes,_ trying to figure out what the designs on the cards are.

"Are you free tonight?"

When Brendon looks up, Spencer's looking at him, not at the pictures of Ryan. His eyes burn into Brendon's and -- Brendon feels shivery, like he had the moments before Ryan would touch him, or the moment when Ryan would rub the oil into him --

"Yes," says Brendon. Or tries to say it, anyway. His voice comes out barely audible, rasping against his throat.

"Then I shall see you tonight." Spencer gathers up the pictures and tucks them into the envelope, takes it with him when he leaves, the day's work still spread out on their desks. Strange, because Spencer is usually so careful to put everything away so that nothing gets lost or spilled on accidentally (it was just once, but Brendon's careful never to drink coffee near the books now).

Then it sinks in, what Spencer was saying, and Brendon leaves the books, too, because -- because _tonight._

*

Brendon drafts Frank and Lyn into helping him carry buckets of water up to his room for a bath.

"You're not even _dirty,"_ complains Frank as he lugs his second bucket full of hot water, which is hilarious to Brendon, because sometimes Frank will take a bath and sit in it for hours, making Gee run to the kitchen over and over for more and more hot water. Frank hisses when some of the hot water splashes on his legs.

"Careful," admonishes Lyn. "If you burn yourself again --"

"It's time to update the plumbing again," Frank tells her. "We should get some of that newfangled shit based on the Romans and Greeks, with the pipes everywhere, like the toilets."

"Well, talk to --"

"Spencer's coming over tonight," Brendon interrupts breathlessly. He should be more embarrassed, but all he can think is _Tonight tonight tonight tonight._ And they'll find out anyway, when Spencer comes to Brendon's room and doesn't leave. Brendon isn't sure how much sound carries from his room into the kitchen, but if it's any at all, they'd know then, too.

"Spencer comes over every night," grumbles Frank. He pours his bucket into Brendon's tiny bathtub, and then Brendon pours his and Lyn pours hers, and it's almost full.

"No -- he's _coming over,"_ says Brendon emphatically. "To stay the night."

"To stay -- what? It took long enough. _Damn."_ Frank shakes his head. "Finally."

Lyn grins at him. "Yeah, I'm with Frank," she says. "Do you think you'll need more oil?"

Brendon's face gets hot, and he presses his hands to his cheeks. "I don't know -- I think I'm okay. I don't --" He cuts himself off and breathes deeply, breathing in the steam from the bathwater. "Oh, I can't --"

"Strip down," orders Lyn. "I'll bring up the last bucket of water -- and something extra for you."

"What?" ask Brendon and Frank at the same time.

"Just soap," says Lyn, but she has a smile on her face.

Brendon strips and climbs into the tub -- it's almost too hot, but he likes it, feels like it calms him down a little. He puts his face close to the water and breathes in the steam. The tub is really too small for him, and there's no reason he shouldn't get a bigger one -- Toro once mentioned that the room he's in was originally intended for short-term guests, just like all the rooms in the east wing. But this is the first time he's _wanted_ a larger tub, wanted to lie down and spend all day in the hot water like a lady of leisure.

Lyn knocks on the door before she comes in with the last bucket of water -- just plain tepid water to rinse with. And from the pocket of her trousers, she pulls a small vial.

"It's bathing oil," she tells him. "It's from France. To make your skin smell nice. And soft, too. It goes right in the water." She hands him the vial, squeezes his shoulder, and leaves, and he's grateful that she doesn't try to have a serious talk with him, or offer advice, or _anything._

The oil does smell nice -- it smells kind of like Gerard and Jamia do sometimes, rich and mysterious. He'd always thought it was perfume, or makeup. He sniffs it a few times before pouring it into the water. It's golden in color, but not a deep, dark gold like the nutty lubricating oil in Ryan's room.

Brendon soaks until his legs cramp from being bent and his back hurts from being hunched over to fit into the tub, and the water is barely warm and not steaming at all. Then he scrubs -- just with a cloth and the regular soap that they make from lye and ashes, but it's okay, it smells like aloe. But he makes sure to scrub everywhere, and not let himself blush. He never blushes when he masturbates anymore, but he still blushes to wash himself.

 _You're ridiculous,_ he tells himself, and then scrubs his hair clean, and his face, and behind his ears. He pulls out his shaving kit and props the mirror on a chair while he scrapes dark bristles off his face until he's totally smooth. He's careful -- it would be awful to slip and cut himself today of all days. He rinses with the last bucket, wraps himself in a clean sheet and uses part of it to dry his hair.

When he lies down on his bed, he wonders if they'll be in his rooms or in Spencer's suite, wonders if Spencer has oil, wonders if he should stretch himself first, or let Spencer do it. He wonders if Spencer will be pleased with him -- when he was younger, the other girls and boys all teased him about being ugly. _Brendon Yucky,_ they sometimes called him, instead of _Brendon Urie._ He wonders if he's not ugly anymore. He mostly likes his own face, the way his mouth folds around his teeth and how his eyebrows always seem to be speaking in their own language... but he wasn't raised to be vain. And he likes his hair better this length, between the long curls he'd grown out when he'd first come to the Ross estate, and the short, severe cut his parents had insisted on.

If Spencer doesn't find him pleasing, why initiate a relationship? So Brendon must be --

Must be stupid. He decides to put it out of his mind. _No point in borrowing trouble,_ his mother had always advised.

Still, as he lies there drying off in the afternoon breeze, he wonders if he should do _something_ to prepare, to make the night special. He sniffs his arm. Whatever the scented oil was, he still smells of it, instead of the aloe of the soap. It's nice. Maybe that's special enough. He's hard, but he doesn't want to masturbate, doesn't want... well, he wants to wait for Spencer.

He can't resist, though, one swipe with the green oil over his hole, a finger in, just enough to loosen him the tiniest bit. A promise to his body of what's to come.

*

Spencer had clearly been doing exactly the same thing Brendon had done all afternoon -- when he shows up for supper, his hair is scraped off his forehead, still slick with water, and his beard looks freshly trimmed and cleaned up. He's wearing casual clothes, a shirt with an open collar, and Brendon's mouth waters at the glimpses of his chest and clavicle, the hollow at the bottom of his throat.

"Hey," he says, lingering in the doorway. He's got his hat in his hands, puts it on one of the tables in the foyer when he finally steps in.

"Hey," says Brendon. He knows he's grinning like a fool, but he can't stop himself.

"I just need..." Spencer gestures to the small bag he's carrying. Brendon hadn't even noticed, had been so distracted by Spencer's eyes and skin.

"Sure. I'll --" Brendon stops when Toro comes into the foyer.

"Can I send up a tray?" he asks, his eyes flicking from Brendon to Spencer and back again. "Forgive my presumption, but we thought..."

Spencer smiles at Brendon, a huge smile that takes up his whole face. "Sure, Toro, that would be great." He never looks away from Brendon, not once, not even when they're climbing the stairs to his suite.

Neither of them glance at Ryan's door.

When they walk into Spencer's suite, Brendon just -- just wants to jump on him and rub himself against Spencer until they both explode. But someone will be up with a tray, so he plasters himself against the wall and holds onto the old adobe with both hands, keeping them behind his back so he leans on them and can't reach for Spencer.

Spencer puts his bag down at the doorway of his bedroom, and then turns. He just _looks_ at Brendon, and Brendon can't help but look back, caught in the thrall of Spencer's hot stare. He feels like he's burning up from the inside out; he has no idea how he can possibly eat _anything,_ much less the chili and cornbread he knows Bob made for supper tonight.

The knock at the door is surprising, even though Brendon was expecting it; the tray Gerard has is even more surprising. No chili and cornbread, but cheese and brown bread and apples, and a pile of dried raspberries, and a dish of whipped cream. A pot of tea, glasses of water. Gerard winks at Brendon as he hands the tray over, and when Brendon turns, Spencer's right there to take it from him and slide it onto the desk. When Brendon turns again, Gerard is gone, his "Have fun!" ringing in the hall.

When Brendon turns back to Spencer, Spencer's licking whipped cream thoughtfully off a finger.

Brendon's heart speeds up.

"I want to say we should just skip eating," Spencer says, "but I think we'll need our strength."

"I --" Brendon's throat is dry. He picks up one of the glasses of water and drains is all in one go. He's still thirsty. No, not thirsty. Nervous. "I don't know if I can get through a meal," he confesses.

"Me either." Spencer's voice is rough, and his arms are strong around Brendon, and his mouth is soft and hard at the same time, and he smells clean, like sweat and dust and sunlight and soap. Brendon holds on and kisses back, barely feels it as Spencer walks them into his bedroom.

They lie on the bed and kiss for what feels like forever, but it can't be, because when Spencer lifts his head, panting, a beam of sunlight is shining through his north-facing windows; the sun hasn't even set yet. It's _daylight,_ and they're _kissing._ Brendon surges up to take Spencer's mouth again, twines his fingers into Spencer's shiny, smooth hair and pulls Spencer's mouth down to his, twines his legs around Spencer's. He's barefoot, and Spencer, at some point, kicked off his shoes. Brendon digs his toes into Spencer's socks, pushes them off, sucks on Spencer's tongue, knocks their hips together trying to find the best position.

"I want --" Spencer pulls away, rolls away to the side of the bed and slides off. "Hold on..." He grabs the bag and brings it over to the bed, pulls out a smaller, drawstring bag. Brendon lies on his side and watches Spencer move, watches the hollow of his throat. He hasn't licked there yet, wants to sink his teeth into the golden skin.

Spencer pulls open his bedside table drawer and takes out a glass pot full of oil. Next to it he sets a pot of some kind of -- something. Brendon squints at it. "Petroleum jelly," Spencer explains. "Better for some things." His cheeks flare red, and Brendon blushes in sympathy, even though he's barely embarrassed at all -- he just wants to watch Spencer.

And, he realizes, he _can_ just watch Spencer.

"Will you..." starts Brendon. "I mean. I'd like to watch you."

He watches Spencer's throat move as he swallows.

"I'd like to watch you, too," Spencer says, his voice rough.

"Me first." Brendon moves back on the bed so Spencer has room. "Please."

Spencer lets out a long breath and starts stripping. First his shirt, showing off his body, which Brendon likes. Even though Brendon logically knows that no two people have the same bodies, he wasn't expecting Spencer's to be _so_ different. Brendon has a long torso and short legs, but Spencer has a short torso compared to his long legs, and his torso makes a triangle, while Brendon's is a rectangle. When Spencer goes for the button fly of his trousers, Brendon leaps up and lets their fingers tangle together.

"I want to," he says into Spencer's mouth, and slowly pulls the buttons apart, pushing Spencer's shorts down with his trousers, feeling how hot his skin is. "I know I said I wanted to watch you, but can I --"

"Anything," Spencer says shakily. His hands are huge on Brendon's head, but they don't pull on Brendon's hair or make Brendon feel scared. They just... keep him in place, keep him focused, remind him of what he wants.

He lowers his mouth and licks Spencer's hard cock, licks the head and around it, then takes it into his mouth. Spencer lets out a sharp gasp, but Brendon can't focus on that now, not now that he has Spencer _in his mouth._ It's different from doing this with the wooden phallus; it’s hard, at first, to figure out where his lips and teeth are supposed to go, but he gets it pretty quickly, he thinks, and greedily takes more and more into his mouth until he gags, the back of his throat closing.

"Ahh --" Spencer's his jerk and Brendon, his hands on Spencer's hips, can feel it when Spencer gets wobbly. He pulls off, a string of saliva still connecting them. Brendon wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

"Maybe lie down?" he suggests, and walks backward on his knees as Spencer steps out of his trousers and shorts and climbs onto the bed.

"Brendon, you don't even --" Spencer takes a deep breath as Brendon pushes against his shoulders until he's lying on the mound of pillows. "Brendon, please, just --"

Brendon leans forward again, but Spencer's hand on his neck stops him.

"No, I mean..." Spencer sits up, and lifts Brendon's chin until they're eye to eye, instead of Brendon staring at his body. "Take off your clothes? Please?"

Brendon nods and pulls his shirt off, tugs off his trousers. He hadn't bothered with shorts, hadn't bothered with socks and shoes. He throws it all on the floor, and crawls over Spencer, letting his body fall onto Spencer's, like the way they were entwined as they kissed, except now there's nothing between them except skin and air.

Spencer's body is hairier in some places than Brendon's, less hairy in others. It feels so strange and wonderful against Brendon's. He rubs his face against Spencer's, rubs his cock against Spencer's, his mouth over Spencer's mouth -- and then leans down to nip at the hollow at Spencer's throat, licks, sinks his teeth in. His groan and Spencer's meet in the middle and fill the room, Spencer reaches out and when his hand comes back, he has a palm full of the petroleum jelly and rubs it on Brendon's cock, holds it against his own, and Brendon can't stop his body from moving, shaking, jerking in Spencer's arms.

*

Spencer wipes them both down with a damp cloth, and feeds him tiny bites of cheese and sips of cool water. Brendon never wants to move, never wants to take his head off Spencer's chest, or stop touching him.

As the sun sets, the bedroom gets less and less light from the sitting room windows. "Electric light, lamps, or candles?" Spencer asks him.

"Electric light." Brendon's not the biggest fan of its weird buzzing, or its eerie yellow cast, but he doesn't want to have to worry about knocking over a candle or a lamp. Spencer switches it on at the door. Brendon loves the way his bones move together so smoothly when he walks.

On his way back to the bed, he bends down and picks up the discarded drawstring bag from the floor. "I brought something," he says, and Brendon leans up on an arm to watch him more closely. "I wasn't sure if you'd want... I know you said it wasn't very good with Ryan, and you used all that salve. But you also said you have --" He stops and opens the bag, displays its contents to Brendon. It's a phallus. "I thought maybe you could use this on me, if you didn't want..."

Brendon smiles, a wide, real smile, the kind he can never keep inside when Spencer's around. But Spencer takes it the wrong way, and says defensively, "I'm trying to be considerate, Brendon, come on --"

"No, no, it's wonderful," Brendon assures him, reaching out for it. "I -- I mean, if you wanted to, with me, I would love to. But this is good, too." Spencer's phallus is made of leather, and is almost soft and springy to the touch, more like the real thing than Brendon's lacquered wooden one. Brendon rubs it with one finger, and eyes Spencer. "I don't know which I want first," he says teasingly.

"Oh, you don't want --" Spencer's blush looks almost painful. Brendon finds it perversely comforting -- proof that Spencer isn't much more experienced than Brendon, proof that if Brendon blushes, Spencer won't hold it against him. And then Spencer's words hit.

"You want -- you want that? You like it?" asks Brendon, his hand convulsing on the leather phallus.

"Yeah -- don't you?" Spencer's hand reaches out to grip around Brendon's.

"Yeah," says Brendon. His heart is going to pound out of his chest. "How do we decide who -- I mean, do you like both parts?"

"Yes, and I think you will, too..." Spencer takes the phallus. "Maybe -- first, tonight, I can..."

"Anything," says Brendon, and lets go of the phallus.

Spencer's oil is unscented. It almost smells like the cooking oil Bob uses sometimes. Spencer's fingers are huge against Brendon's body, and rough. He keeps Brendon on his back and tucks two pillows under his hips, putting Brendon at an angle, making him bend his knees to keep from arching his back. His fingers feel so different from Brendon's -- like the difference between Brendon trying to tickle himself on the stomach and someone else tickling him and making him shriek with laughter. Except different, a little different.

The first finger in always feels strange, but then with the second, Brendon can feel his body stretching. Spencer's sucking on his lower lip, watching his fingers inside Brendon, paying such close attention. Brendon lets his head fall back, lets himself just _feel._ It's almost like it's his first time -- it feels so different from _anything._

"Three fingers," Spencer warns, but Brendon's body _knows,_ is eager to let Spencer in, to grab up all the pleasure it can find. It knows what's coming, it wants it. Brendon wants it.

"Please," he chokes out. "I'm ready, please, Spencer, please now, please now --" And he moans when Spencer slides in, oil and petroleum jelly slicking the way. Nothing has ever felt like this, the pleasure burning through Brendon's body, lighting everything in him on fire, sending sparks through to his fingers and toes.

Spencer's thrusts move them across the bed, and Brendon puts his hands up to hold himself against the headboard, moves his hips back against Spencer's in the rolling motions that feel so good when he uses the phallus. Spencer hits that spot inside him again and again, jolting Brendon's body against the headboard, against the bed, against the pillows; Brendon thinks it is them against the world, against the universe, colliding together like stars, breathing each other's air, too focused on each other to even kiss. Spencer's gaze is like a beam of light, unerringly finding Brendon no matter where he goes inside his own head, and his moans are in perfect counterpoint to Brendon's.

*

"I used to believe God had a plan for me," he tells Spencer. The room is dark, lights off, no electricity thrumming through wires, no otherworldly yellow light flooding the corners. "When I was little. My parents... God knew who I was and had a plan _just for me,_ do you understand?"

Brendon isn't looking at Spencer, but feels him nod, and continues. "But I always felt lost, because I wasn't supposed to... I wasn't supposed to want things that weren't in God's plan, but I could never figure out what God's plan for me was. And when my father -- when he sent me here, I thought that I was never going to... never going to know. Because this couldn't be God's plan, if there even is a God. I mean, I'm not eight years old anymore. I know that maybe there isn't, and even if there is, it probably doesn't even know I exist as an individual."

"Mm-hmm," rumbles Spencer. Brendon listens to his heart beat for a while before he keeps going.

"But if there's a plan, Spencer... if anything has a plan, I think this is it. You and me." He feels daring to suggest such a thing -- daring and stripped bare, raw, even more naked than when he took off his clothes.

Brendon holds his breath for what feels like forever. Then Spencer's hand comes down and settles on Brendon's neck, under his hair, gripping tightly, but not hard enough to choke or hurt. Just hard enough... just enough to let Brendon know that Spencer's there, holding on.

"I think so, too," whispers Spencer finally. Brendon relaxes and breathes again, matching his breaths, and his heartbeat, to Spencer's.

_(not the end, but a pretty good stopping place.)_

  



End file.
